how i came to love myself
I'm reading an article on softening your focus. My mind massages the black text, slowly, playfully. The pads of my fingertips are pressing the button flesh between my shoulder blades and gently guiding the skin up the nape of my neck to the edge of my damp hair, at which point, these fingers knot circles and twirls.
At first, I don't even realize I am doing this. Methodically pressing, pulling, dancing. Sending this warm sensation to the crown of my head where it dusts sparkles and tingles throughout my scalp.
My hand falls down my left cheek and rests lightly on my rounded shoulder. It moves across the freckles and sunspots of my lotioned collarbone like it is discovering the meaning of braille-kept secrets.
It is.
It is how I came to love myself.
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