[Series: Greek Love (GL)]
[Love is a cycle, a curved line that doubles back and repeats itself like a rhyme, but, like the stages of grief, there are steps however blurry they seem. This is my Kubler-Ross model made in an attempt to set the cipher that is love in stone.]
⬠» ⧠⾠â â â ⽠⧠« â«
[1. ð¿] Hatred
Is it possible to be composed of hate? For your atoms and cells to be bonded together by the very thing that wish to tear itself apart? Science says humans are composed of stardust from the heavens, can I be held in one piece by the hate in my heart?
My faults are omens in the dark shadows clinging beneath my eyes, I see them popping up on the acne on my face, I feel them whispering to me in the one thousand and one flaws that inhabit the lines and curves I have.
I find myself wishing upon a shooting star my imperfections would collapse in itself like a dying sun, or to fold itself into a paper plane to ship my insecurities someone else. It's a compulsion and as natural as the scratchy, strawberry skin
covering all the bones crammed into me. There are 206 bones in the human body so why does it feel like there's twice that
number in me?
[2.ð¿] Lies
I'm an actor filling my role on stage, reading my script to an audience that is my mirror and my mind. I'm speaking in lies that have been photoshopped on
truths; the sharp edges of the lies
padded down with concealer, but deceptions feel like water after chewing mint gum.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, so if you looked into mine what wouldn't you see?
[3. ð¿] Pride
It feels like the beauty is a game and everybody's is competing with barbed words and forked tongues to win the prize of self confidence via virtual validation. The blemishes of others become vanity mirrors to reflect my self perceived assets.
I'm playing catch up with confidence and hide and seek with hubris, but I know these are games with two opposing options. I cannot win, so I must lose.
[4. ð¿] The Fall
My body is a contradicting concoction of a haven and a mausoleum where ghosts and gods of my trickling thoughts dine together. I am the patchwork of my ancestors. History is written in written my bones and my anatomy is a generational graveyard of genes. I see my father in my stubby fingers and my mother in the shadows of my face. I wonder if I can love myself like I do them.
[5. ð¿] Self-growth
Acceptance comes in shallow waves, its foamy teeth eroding the rocks of rejection on this shoreline of melanin. I wish I knew the a, b, c's and one, two, threes of love, but there is no class that explains that controlled and uncontrolled
variables of self-love; how to cherish your sun-spotted strengths and marbled
flaws. Where is the lazy line between love and vanity.
Where are the cryptic coordinates of loving myself on this body?
Perhaps this is a side effect of the human condition philosophers speak of. Going from on extreme to the other, from the deep end to the shallow end in the polychromic pool of introspection.
This is what makes us mortal under the sun-streaked, bleeding sky. Our endless frenzied foxtrot to find love in perfection
and the reflection of our flaws.
To love is to grow as it is to regret.