A Love Letter to Myself

They say loving yourself is the best. But when I look at myself, there is very little about myself I find attractive. Not even my mind is pretty. It’s surronded with scars and torn and bloody. So I suppose the only thing I’m allowed to say to myself is that dispite all the flaws and scars you try to hide, there is someone waiting. Someone whom shall love me in the way I hope. No, that’s not quite right. If someone should love me, I suppose that someone should be me. Otherwise, what is love?