As a young teenager,
I had a corrupted sense of wholeness.
Shallow people was my drug;
discontent was my side effect.
I kept turning towards malicious opinions
and irrational beauty standards,
not knowing the tumor that developed within:
I am worthless, annoying, disappointing, not enough.
When I opened Milk and Honey,
I felt the author’s highs and lows,
her joys and her miseries,
her securities and her insecurities.
Yet she taught me that no one can determine my worth
because I am simply human like everyone else.
Because of my humanity, I deserve respect.
Because of my humanity, I deserve love.
Because of my humanity, I am deserving.
No event in my life, action I do, or opinion about me
will ever change that.