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Poor Beauty
I am unable to write a love letter to myself.

This does not mean I cannot be happy. But it does mean I can never be content.

It means I succumb to sloth and doubt and shame all too easily. It means that I dwell on flaws, mistakes and moments of weakness. I means that there is nothing known as stillness in my world.

It means that I ignore your fragility, your insecurity. I ignore the things that make me similar to others, desperate to make myself alien. It means that I win through the loss of others. It means late night maudlin musings, hard hot truths in the languid night but easily dismissed in the daylight.

I may like myself, but I cannot love myself. Because there is a perfect me, and I am not it.