Ode to Self

You are going to die, and your hair

is going to grow through the dirt with the roots.

But here you are,

worried about whether or not your cheeks are rouged,

and whether or not

they love you.

Who fucking cares?

You know who loves you?

I do.

Your hair is alive with the sun,

and the way it falls around your face is just right.

The light in your eyes isn't coming from the sky,

but from somewhere in your mind

Let them stare.

Who fucking cares?

You know who wants you?

We do.

I am going to die and this hair

is going to grow through the dirt with the roots.

And here I am,

worried about whether or not

I am worthy enough

to be loved by you.

You know who bleeds?

We do.

I have to say it:

I love you.