What sort of blessing is it
to know within you
that you are a wretched thing?
What sort of blessing is it
to accept your flaws?
Cradle them to your skin
as the balm they are —
you can never reach for peace
without first grasping
that you lay amongst embers
that do not warm, but char,
and then ultimately
leave you cold.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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