A friend of mine asked me to write a poem

about myself, and for the first time, I was left

without words. I realized that I can churn out

pages upon pages about lovers and the sea

and holy places and music floating through

the night, but I can’t write a single line about

myself. I don’t know how to weave my grocery

list of redeemable qualities into the tapestry of

Earth’s most beautiful things.

 

But I am still learning, and I am still growing into

this body. My confidence doesn’t quite fit me yet;

it still hangs off the ends of my hands like I’m a child

playing dress up in my father’s sportcoat. I have to

cuff the hems of my integrity. I wear thick socks so

that my feet fill my compassion. My honesty falls

into my eyes.

 

But my eyes and my smile are tailor made, and

my heart has my initials stitched into it between

its coronary veins. They are mine and only mine,

and I am theirs, and someday they will fit me like

a glove. I’ll radiate confidence and integrity and

compassion and honesty and be soft like rose

petals and babies’ dozing breaths but strong like

iron and women's hands and the ground I skinned

my knees upon in childhood and someday, some

glorious someday, I’ll be unwavering in my love

of myself.

 

I am with me every second of my life. I am the

best friend I’ve ever had. Slowly, I will learn to

see myself as such.