Self

I don't love myself. If I did, I'd probably not have had sex. I wouldn't have let a stranger kiss me in every nook and every cranny, in every crease and every crevice. I wouldn't have let him climb on top of me in a drunken stupor, and he wouldn't have penetrated me without a rubber. He wouldn't have left hickies on my breasts and bruises on my neck because we wouldn't have even had sex. I don't love myself. If I did, I probably wouldn't have fallen in love with him. I wouldn't have allowed my heart to be toyed with, and I wouldn't have become his bitch. He wouldn't have raised his wrathful hands to me, and I wouldn't have purple, blue, and black decorations all down my back. I don't love myself. If I did, I wouldn't have let him destroy the last remaining morsel of my self-esteem. He wouldn't have belittled me and made me believe so many wretched things. I wouldn't have allowed him to call me out of my name, and he wouldn't have stripped me of my own identity. I wouldn't have given up my right to personhood because I would have been too busy loving me.