I hear your sobs, like molten notes deformed in the heat of your self-hatred.
In the comfort of your entrails, you cannibalize your soul, scratching out your eyes so that you don’t have to see the monstrosity you believe yourself to be.
You are chained, nailed to the cross you carved yourself from shattered expectations, with iron forged from the lashes you’ve rubbed off from an age of weeping.
Touch these words and absorb them through your flesh.
Your eyes sparkle of stardust, your mind, a natural wonder not yet discovered.
Love is a strange thing, given never taken. You are a vessel meant for it, but you’ve riddled yourself with holes. It pours straight through you, leaking from your broken heart in crimson showers as you hang perched on your crucifix of loathing.
Pack your wounds with the pedals of beautiful flowers. Seal the gashes with sunsets and the ash of campfires; the melodies in the night. Wrap yourself in the warmth of a stranger’s smile.
Learn to love yourself first.
Then, and only then, will you begin to fill up with the love of others.
I know this to be true, because I crafted the empty crucifix standing next to you.