I’m still learning about the man I am.

I don’t love myself, but I wish I did. 

 

Always tender to the wrong touch,

overcome by the nausea my white savior complex induces. 

 

Opinionated to a fault–my own detriment,

my perfectionist best will never be good enough. 

 

Poor with a capital ‘PO’

the world I can give revolves around homemade cards and love letters.

 

I can make a decision when there’s a gun pointed at my face,

but never about food. 

 

Habitually bitching that life isn’t fair,

while I ache for the reassurance it can be.

 

Absent to my world– too early, too late,

but never just in time. 

 

Perception burning sunlight through me, 

but I can’t digest your thoughts.

 

Show me love and my fight or flight kicks in,

bear to witness the lack of acceptance I hold for myself.