what i love most about myself
is as far off as the ocean on my tired tongue
eluding my grasping fingertips with the deft
ease of years of practice

i am a stranger to myself
rescuing myself from drowning
and drowning
nonetheless

what i love most i have
twisted my mouth around in desperate
attempts to speak it aloud

and i long ago memorized
each cranny and nook
of my nooks and crannies
now the blueprints won't match up

what i love most about myself
refuses to be spoken in words,
so perhaps i can explain it this way:

last night, i lay awake
an extra hour, watching the ceiling
wheel among the stars above me
and my hand pressed to my mouth

kissing each indelicate finger
down crooked knuckles
lips brushing each small, beautiful
imperfection

what i love most about myself
is the taste of a thin, white scar
shining an inch below
my left ring finger.