Dearest Self

I am still yours,
even when my tummy is bloated, rolling with its lovable portions of fat and femininity
even when my hair is rumpled, unwashed, and unkempt
even when my face is blemished with constellations of acne
even when my lungs forgot to breathe for a moment after unexpected exhaustion
even when my brain declared war on itself over and over again
even when my lips are swollen after biting out pained noise
even when my throat are burning after drowning a shot of potent liquor
even when my ears refuse to listen to anything but depressing music
even when my eyes are tired after shedding ungodly amount of tears
even when my limbs shake with unexplainable coldness
even when my tongue stutters explaining about my destroyed unwanted past
even when my fingers try to map undisclosed location of my poor heart
even when my skin burns after being touch with so much kindness
even when my eyebags are bigger than my peachy bum
even when my mouth fails to form comprehensible sentences after being drowned by insecurity
even when my fingers tremble under the bulk of loneliness
even when my thighs chafes one another
even when my jeans are decorated with overflowing muffin top
even when my body refuses to move from the bed
even when my brain forgets how to produce serotonin
even when my heart dropped after witnessing a familiar scenario

I am still yours.
Every inch.
Every atom.
Every thought that was, that is, that will be.

I am still yours.

And no one can take away that fact from you.