Love Song to Myself

About the Irish accent: I'm not saying it's a hideous accent, I'm saying that even my most wholehearted attempts at speaking with it fall flat!

Love Song to Myself

The way my right eye squints just a little
more than my left when I smile;
the pounding of my hands on the table
when I am irrationally excited about a poem.
My nose-wrinkled laugh. My insistance
upon putting my left foot down before
my right when I drag myself from my bed;
my inability to remain in a bad mood
because I always end up laughing
at my own half-hearted efforts to frown
or whine. The way I smile and can't
help but giggle whenever I say

I'm having a bad day. My disgracefully
hideous attempts at an Irish accent,
my continual fluctuation between drinking
my coffee black or with an ungodly
amount of cream and sugar;
my refusal to drink any kind of tea
except for Earl Grey because no other
tea leaves are quite as dignified.

The times I listen to my friends repeat
the same stories because I don't have
the heart to tell them I've already
heard them; the smilies I leave all over
the margins of my textbooks
because I've found a pun or an unexpected
bit of sentiment. My beanie hats.
The way I button my vests wrong
on purpose because a friend told me
I shouldn't; the scarves I tie in a bow
around my neck; even the shoes I wear
with holes right in the center because
they're my favorites and I don't like
to spend money on myself:

these are the things I will love about myself
until someone else loves them for me.

The End

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