I could pass an hour telling you
what’s wrong with me, delving

into every nook of my weaknesses, every

cranny between my ribs. I could pass a day, if

you had the time, if you wanted the evidence,

to revel in it with me, beside me. I could pass a lifetime

doling out that part of me, believing it’s nothing

but the truth, believing I am nothing

but my flaws, carving craters

with this shovel of self-doubt and running my fingers

over those pockmarks as a way to remind myself

that they’re there, that they control me,

that I, myself, dug them into existence.

It’s hard, for me, to listen to my petals, to happily collapse,

my aching knees caving into the glistening

and supple earth that I am. There are dandelions

in my soul, I know, daisies along the clanking gears

of my mind, and my snapdragon lips

were made for kind words, for laughing,

for the color pink that tints a smile, for greater things.

I must extend beyond myself. I am a prairie

full of wildflowers, soft grasses swaying, giddy

on the wind. I am the sunset, sliding downwards,

turning the world orange wherever I touch it–and I am the moon

with a serene brilliance. When I push myself down,

a new version of me should rise.

I am expansive. That’s the whole truth. I fly

beyond my flaws, stretching

between seas, and over them. My stretch marks

only tilt their purple paintbrushes across my skin

because I will never stop growing–because tomorrow,

I will be better–because tomorrow,

I can be brilliant, because my rises

and sets are a cycle of beauty, because

I am loved, and loveable, even if

I can’t love myself yet–tomorrow

I will embrace every rolling meadow that I am,

and I will learn to appreciate every twilight glimmer

of myself.