The Tenacity of a Lion

I have a problem with hanging on to the things that hurt me.
No matter how small, no matter how inconsequential, I cling to those things.
No matter how hard I try to let go, no matter how I shake my hands, it sticks like glue.

I hold those things, with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tiger.
I cradle them and sing them to sleep, as though they have done anything to deserve it.
No matter what I tell myself, there is a difference between knowing and doing.

The scars, I hold them close. I reopen them to see my insides, see how they look.
I muck about with my emotions, playing with my heart strings, bruising my ribs.
I carve out the mistakes, make them deeper so that I don't forget.

If only I could forgive myself. If only I could let those things go.
If only I could love myself with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tigress.
If only knowing and doing were no difference at all.

Instead, I replay the scenes, crush my own hopes and dreams.
You're undeserving, you've done nothing right, you are nothing.
You're ugly, you've failed, you are worthless.

With the tenacity of a lion, I destroy myself, attacking as though I am the enemy.
With the ferocity of a tiger, I shred myself to bits, dragging myself down and down.
With the whimper of a child, I wish I could let myself go and forget where I've gone.