Naïveté

I’ve always held ambivalence towards my body. I’m not genetically inclined to long limbs and high metabolisms, neither do I possess the discipline to maintain abstinence from calorific desserts. The struggle to accept my body is a far greater one than saying no to that banoffee tart(omg I love banoffee tarts) though and maybe in my desperation to achieve the body of my dreams it’s the exact stumbling block that stands in my way. In a world plainly obsessed with love whether it’s for superficial things or grandiose or that one person you cannot will your heart to forget to nameless tongues to just fucking loving the intricate system of cells and muscles that enable you to function, that final example is the toughest one to succeed at. I cannot love myself. So I sit here and hope. That someone’s going to walk into my life and cross-examine me like a porcelain vase on a mantle and possibly render me delicate and beautiful enough to house. And in that house I’ll seek refuge in a love I cannot even offer to myself. It’s sort of tragic. In fact, this handicap often makes me reconsider my ability to love someone. Maybe I’m too weak to love, maybe I’m too naive, maybe I’m too careless, maybe I’m too impatient, maybe I’m too needy, maybe I’m too damn difficult to love.

I’m sorry. 
I wouldn’t choose to love me either.