I Never Learned

I never learned how to love myself,
I rather learned how to numb myself,
With spirits, tobacco and pain-killers,
It’s better to hide the pain, and to hide from the mirrors.

I never learned how to tell myself that I’m enough.
I never learned how to be gentle with myself; seems I like it rough,
With my own words that chip away at nice things people have said,
I, myself, am just as to blame for all the reasons I have bled.

I never learned how to harden my skin.
I can’t be nasty to others; only to the body I’m in.
I can’t see why I have to feel with such feeling,
I’m always patching up others, but I’m never healing.

That big, black hound sits on the porch,
Salivating at the mouth to put out my torch.
He’s just waiting for me to open the door,
And say, “Come in, come tear me apart, just as before.”

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