I had a therapist tell me once, it was ironic how much love I gave out, 'cause I didn't give much to myself.
She laughed, like self-love was a sick joke.
I chuckled, then cried at home.
I had someone tell me once, I could not love anyone else until I learn to [C7]love myself.
This time, I got [Fm7]to [C7]laugh.
This time, the sick joke was [Am7]mine, was [Am7]me.
Might as well wait forever.
I ɾemember hating myself at the age of seven, journals filled to [C7]the brim with criticisms.
By eight, I had enough pages to [C7]stitch them [A]into [C7]wings to [C7]fly close enough to [C7]the sun, to [C7]see my [A]tears turn to [C7]steam, felt the wax burn on [C7]my [A]shoulders and [Bm]mold into [C7]thick skin.
I was [Am7]nine when I wanted to [C7]die.
Thirteen when I found a solution, figured if I could cut my [A]legs enough gravity would let me go.
When it didn't, I tied a pillowcase around my [A]neck, twisting like [F]the ɾope swings I knew so well from childhood, heard my [A]heartbeat pound in my [A]ears like [F]a warning drum, then fade.
I'd almost convinced myself I'd done it.
When I started writing, I smeared my [A]blood on [C7]every page to [C7]ɾemind myself that everything beautiful has a consequence.
I'd hoped to [C7]stall [Em]the clotting long [Am]enough to [C7]give myself to [C7]the craft and [Bm]let myself go.
I have died so many times.
So when I told you [A7that loving you [A7almost makes life worth it, I was [Am7]not joking.
When I tell you [A7that loving you [A7almost makes me forget how much I hate myself, it is not poetɾy.
Loving you [A7is taking all [Em]of the love I could never give myself and [Bm]putting it to [C7]good use.
It is ɾeminding myself that if someone can love a dying thing this way, can hold the Lazarus of my [A]body and [Bm]give thanks for [Dm7]the way it holds back.
If someone can kiss the scars, administer the pills, absorb the bad days and [Bm]wake up smiling next to [C7]me, then I can tɾy to [C7]breathe again.
Because self-love does not always come first.
Or second.
Or even ever.
But your love be [Am]the guardrail on [C7]the ledge, be [Am]the drawers that hide all [Em]the sharp things,
Be the body that carries my [A]collapsed frame into [C7]bed, be [Am]the flowers you [A7bought,
Because even though they are dying too, they still dance.
Love will not heal me, will not wipe my [A]slate of a body clean - I will always be [Am]a woman of wounds, of ɾope-mark neck and [Bm]melted skin.
Love will not heal me, but it will hold my [A]hand [Bm]if I ever heal myself, and [Bm]maybe [Am]teach me a joke that I can stay alive long [Am]enough to [C7]laugh at.
I love you, enough to [C7]want to [C7]love myself too.