A Love Letter To My Lovers


*after Caitlyn Seihl’s “a love letter to my stretchmarks”

I learned not to love myself on purpose.
I was four when my mother told me
I’m a mistake.
When I turned fourteen
I stayed soft so they could tear me,
pull me under. I was too tired
to wait for the ground
to swallow me whole. I was fourteen.
I was young.
Children should never feel
the need to not be alive. I turned sixteen
and the veins on my thighs
opened into red rivers.
I was cliché.
I was art.
What they don’t tell you at 16
is they can smell blood –
the men, the young, the hungry.
They kept coming like
the dead from some ancient underworld,
“give me your mouth, your hatred”
I am a ship of naked bodies.
I will keep you full.
I know I am supposed to feel safe
in my own skin. They tell me no woman
should look so thirsty,
but they don’t know.
I want.
I want.
I want.
I am empty beds. The safe bet. The road well-traveled.
I am spilt wine and sweaty dance floors.
I am the victim and the perpetrator.
I am every song
about Him.
I am a place for cowards. TC mark

I asked women to be honest about their Instagram photos

“The essays in this book are short and sweet, and incredible. Love love loved this.” — Alex

“I’m so in love with this book! It’s so moving and some of the stories bring me to tears not because it’s sad, but because it’s relatable and shows that we’re not alone.” — Kendra

This is the reality of Instagram...

More From Thought Catalog