Impossible

Damn these expectations. These demands that I struggle and fight to meet. The corners that I push myself into. The confines I bend and break myself to fit within.

If the world didn’t measure beauty as being skin deep. If I stopped caring what the world thought. Then I would know without a fragment of doubt. That I am beautiful. That I am enough. That I am worthy.

Deep down inside the trenches. Beyond the steady stream of my constant thought. I know I am good. I know that I am real. I know that I am rare.

Perhaps someday. When the light has left. When the edges have dulled. When the years have pulled their weight. Perhaps then it’ll be enough. To be as chaotic and unpredictable as the ocean. To be as weighted and deep as the night sky. To be as mysterious and tragic as the wilderness. And perhaps then, I’ll let go. I’ll stop chasing the illusion of perfection. I’ll stop demanding more than I was ever made to give. I’ll stop sabotaging myself with the stabbing pain of self insult. With the morbidity of constant comparison. Perhaps it will finally come to an end.

And I will be…

I will be free…

I will be me.