In my observation, they’re worse than bed bugs, mosquitoes, and spiders.
Those demons of self-esteems.
Those haters of confidence and eaters of all things comfortable.
Those deniers and dwellers, those criers and past lovers, those things you wish you could do better, and those things you wish you hadn’t done at all.
And those things you wish you could do a million more times over.
All in the same “emon”.
If you only understood how beautiful you are.
How incomparably much I love you.
Your consideration is immense. You put me before yourself — before anyone. You love me.
It’s so nice to be loved.
I cannot understand how I can be so lovable, and yet, I am so incredibly undesirable.
It’s those self-esteemons.
They’re not pets; they’re pests. They creep into my life, stowing themselves away on a piece of luggage or an old pair of shoes. Finding their way from the floor to my heart and wandering into my soul without invitation.
They’re an infestation, those self-esteemons.
I struggle with the fact that I am loved and protected so fiercely that I know you and I will always be fine.
And yet, I am nothing.
But I am incredible.
I am finally at a place where I love me.
Where I appreciate me.
Where I am grateful everyday that I am me, and I wish others could experience the kindness that is me.
But still, I am infested.
I am infested with these self-esteemons, who, after nearly a year, cannot let go of the fact that I am undesirable. They aren’t willing to unlatch their clutches and let me go. They’re not willing to allow the beautiful person I see in the mirror be touched again.
Because I do not know why.
I don’t know why I’m not good enough.
I don’t know if I’m not pretty enough. Thin enough. Smart enough. Funny enough. Naive enough. Bitch enough.
I just don’t know.
Those fucking self-esteemons.
I have the most beautiful, amazing best friend I could ask for. You protect my feelings like I am a princess, and my heart lives in a fort within our castle.
I have the most wonderful guardian. You want the best for me and nothing less.
I live in turbulence because when you ask me if I will have company tonight, I want to cry.
I do not want company. I already have the company that I want.
I do not want to be touched by another. Because your touch was the last I had, and it’s the last I want.
And it’s been a day less than eternity since I’ve been touched.
So, please — do not ask me if I will have company.
I would love to have the company of you tonight, as I would love to every night, but I will not have the “company” of any man tonight — or any night in the foreseeable future.
Because I am infested
And I would, at this point, not understand who I am without them.