So many times when people ask me to love myself, they simply mean to let me let them love me in the manner they see fit
As if I am impure.
As if I am not beautiful.
As if I am ashamed, unholy.
But in the shattered and echoed hallelujahs that reverberate in the temple of myself
With crumbling columns and glass stained with splintered ideologies that do not align to the likeness of other people , forgive me if the rusted lock on the beaten door will not give way for you.
For if Saint Peter guarded his own basilica I’m damn sure he would not be known as the Saint of locksmiths
I put up these walls not out of spite but instead to block Heaven’s light from shedding its rays on the confines of my skull.
But the animal of myself is not tamed by anyone but me.
The me who feeds it love. Who bathes in its rivers sprung from vascular ribbons that enswathe it. Who lays it down beneath a skin of stars shot down from the night, unwarranted. Who prays to it.
And what is that save loyalty? But undivided love?
Do not give me love that i do not deserve and call it Heaven.
Do not pound at the doors of my temple with open arms for the me that you don’t see as fit.
For if cleanliness is next to godliness i am washed in the tide of myself
The love I have for myself rises early to put the tea on.
The love I have for myself sees through blind eyes and hears through deaf ears to experience every bit of sensation that your love did not recognize.
The love i have for myself has been broken and redeemed so many times that it is no longer the same love but it still feels as if my heart is pumping ice water when it’s gone, glacial pits echoing in haloes around my body like the latter of the heaven i cannot see, hell has become nothing but a hindrance on me.
Heaven was not meant for those with love like mine.
And I’m sure one day I’ll fly away from this broken temple.
But I have to write myself wings first.