when was the last time you touched yourself
with the intention to meet your soul,
not just your skin?
what would happen if you stopped
trying to regulate your emotions
and started eroticizing them
instead?
what would happen if you stopped
trying to become someone better
and started dating the person
you already are?
what if the thing you call self-sabotage
is actually self-protection
waiting to be
understood
instead of shamed?
what if healing isn't about becoming light,
but learning to make love to your own darkness
until it sighs in relief?
what if the parts of you
you’ve been trying to "heal"
are actually the ones here
to teach you how to love
without conditions?
what would happen if
instead of forgiving yourself,
you listened to the part of you
that still doesn’t feel
forgiven?
what if the version of you
you’re ashamed of
is just the part
that learned how to protect you
when no one else did?
when was the last time
you listened to your thoughts
without trying to fix them;
like a friend venting,
not a problem to solve?
could it be that your deepest wounds
aren’t waiting to be resolved,
but to be rewritten
as love letters
from your younger self?
if you spoke to your inner critic
like a scared child instead of a villain,
would it still need to scream?
are you brave enough
to stop “working on yourself”
and start making love to the parts
that keep interrupting your "progress"?
them: what happens when you
write a poem for me?
me: i find the version of you
that still believes in magick and
dare it to come out
naked.
i can write you something
that makes your pulse remember
who it used to be before
the world made it polite.
but you’ll pay in goosebumps.
it’s not cheap
because it’s not hollow.
it’s the cost of honesty in a world
that worships filters.
comment “worth it”
if you’re ready to be witnessed.
if i said poetry isn’t art
but aftercare,
would you finally
let yourself come undone
on the page?
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