As a young teenager,

I had a corrupted sense of wholeness.

Shallow people was my drug;

discontent was my side effect.

​

I kept turning towards malicious opinions

and irrational beauty standards,

not knowing the tumor that developed within:

I am worthless, annoying, disappointing, not enough.

When I opened Milk and Honey,

I felt the author’s highs and lows,

her joys and her miseries,

her securities and her insecurities.

Yet she taught me that no one can determine my worth

because I am simply human like everyone else.

Because of my humanity, I deserve respect.

Because of my humanity, I deserve love.

Because of my humanity, I am deserving.

No event in my life, action I do, or opinion about me

will ever change that.