Edited By: Samaira Kumaran
Oh God I tell myself I love myself and I do, I do, I swear I do; I look at my reflection in awe- I’m drop dead gorgeous, they write about me in the books I read, of doe eyes and long lashes. I tell myself I have nothing to be insecure about; my hair is softer than the satin pillowcase I sleep on, strangers tell me I could be a model, I’m tall and thin and perfect. What’s not to love? I preach it like confidence, showcase it like narcissism, fake it till you make it, I made it the day I got drunk and kissed the mirror.
I think I fell in love with myself in the sheer fear that no one else might.
I know I’m not the only one who’s had relationships that crashed and burned, but there is something that is absolutely terrifying about how fascination turns into indifference. I hate it. I hate feeling like I’m only worthy of temporary obsession. A month or two will go by and I’ll be the brightest star in the sky only to be blurred by the clouds, fading in your memory, watching you chart your constellations with someone else. I want to be someone’s moon for once—irreplaceable regardless of whether the sky is clear or not. I want to be delicate without breaking apart. I want to be soft with someone and not regret it after. I want to be adored and spoiled and taken care of until tiny me is giggling with joy so insurmountable, I forget why I was ever depressed.
If I love myself so much, why do I cling to your affection like I’m starving and you are my last morsel of food? I loved crawling into bed, into my own arms, but now I struggle to sleep without your whispers in my ear. I knew I was beautiful before you told me so, yet I’ve replayed you saying it more than my favourite song. I dislike the pedestal I’ve put you on. That was my throne. You took it from me. This was my kingdom, don’t put me in these shackles, I did not ask for this jail that your love has put me in, handcuffs on me, hands on me. I used to have control over this body, these thoughts. Don’t make me feel things I didn’t consent to, only to leave me confused, numb, and hurt. I hate you I hate you I hate you. Except I don’t, because you have to love to hate and I never loved you—I lied. You don’t know me. You know of smiles and moans. You know of the wild things I do when I get drunk, those stories that make you laugh—of pool parties and dancing in dresses that cling to my body. There are photos all over my feed, you like all of them. A man bought me tequila shots. They aren’t enough to warm the skin I etched poems of blood into when I was seventeen. I am in pain. Can you not see it?
When I was sixteen, a boy broke my heart. And no, you aren’t him —not that I want you to be, but you could, you remind me of him when you’re cruel and cold and callous.
The nineteen summers in my bones have warmed the twenty two winters your skin has weathered. Don’t leave. People always leave and I never get to say goodbye. You know how many dream catchers I own. You’ve seen the posters I pinned above my bed. We fight over who the greatest of all time in football is when I see your Barcelona jersey. I shout Hala Madrid and you kiss me to shut me up. We could work, if you tried. You make me popcorn when the match is on. I’ve sneaked out of my house to watch it with you. I lose, you win. You shout, I scream, you laugh, I complain, and then you hold me in your arms and tell me this victory isn’t worth it if I’m going to be sad.
You do the bare minimum, I was raised by Wizard Liz, but she didn’t warn me of your hazel eyes. I love me. You love you. We argue over who’s more self-obsessed. But if I love myself so much, shouldn’t I have left by now? “Mine” you say, and I want to say “Yours” so desperately but I don’t.
I don’t have to.
The results in. And they are catastrophic.
You’re my moon.