lessons on how to love yourself in a series of epilogues

look into the mirror, say, "i love my hand-me down glasses and my china doll hair, cut by the man down the street."
throw away the parts of you that weigh you down. push away the murky waters like they're really nothing at all.
watch the smile grow on the boy's mouth when you raise your camera hesitantly, and click away with a steady precision.
start loving your awkward floppy walk, hug yourself on the inside, start taking notes.
notice how when the smile comes out of your mouth it's awkward and jangly, and begin liking it anyway, because it's fully, wholly your own, and that's all you can do.
breathe in the sunsets that happen every day at the same time, bather yourself in the fiery glow before the stars come out.
start noticing how the white lines on your under-arms, raised like a series of calculated goosebumps, are just old reminders of bad scenery. nothing more.
move quickly through the sadness, don't give the deadweight your time of day.
start to do things. only listen to your brain when it offers you things you like, and keep it silent every other day. eventually it'll learn to only give you the suggestions you like.
do not panic. do not draw the meaning out of things and scream when nothing comes. do not expect the magic to come when it is called. it'll come when you stop looking for it.
don't go overboard because you feel like you have to. but change when you feel like you want to and stay when you feel like you should.
take the steps you need to take. take the steps you think you deserve.
remember that you deserve the steps more than anyone else.