Healing
Nayo Jones Lyrics

I had a therapist tell me once, it was ironic how much love I gave out, 'cause I didn't give much to myself.
The therapist pointed out that the singer gave love to others but neglected self-love.

She laughed, like self-love was a sick joke.
The singer's therapist found the irony amusing, but the singer did not.

I chuckled, then cried at home.
The singer reacted to the therapist's remark with a mix of amusement and sadness.

I had someone tell me once, I could not love anyone else until I learn to love myself.
A person told the artist that they could not truly love someone else until they loved themselves first.

This time, I got to laugh.
The artist finds the idea of self-love being a prerequisite for loving others ridiculous.

This time, the sick joke was mine, was me.
The singer realizes that their lack of self-love is a problem that they need to address.

Might as well wait forever.
The singer sarcastically suggests that they should wait forever to love themselves if self-love is a prerequisite for loving others.

I remember hating myself at the age of seven, journals filled to the brim with criticisms.
The artist has struggled with self-hate from a young age and recorded their negative thoughts in journals.

By eight, I had enough pages to stitch them into wings to fly close enough to the sun, to see my tears turn to steam, felt the wax burn on my shoulders and mold into thick skin.
At eight, the artist had accumulated enough self-criticisms to attempt to fly close to the sun with wings made of journal pages, experiencing pain and thick skin as a result.

I was nine when I wanted to die.
At age nine, the artist had suicidal thoughts.

Thirteen when I found a solution, figured if I could cut my legs enough gravity would let me go.
At thirteen, the singer attempted to harm themselves to the point where gravity would allow them to die.

When it didn't, I tied a pillowcase around my neck, twisting like the rope swings I knew so well from childhood, heard my heartbeat pound in my ears like a warning drum, then fade.
When the artist's previous suicide attempts failed, they tried again by tying a pillowcase around their neck, an action that was familiar from childhood rope swings, but ultimately did not work.

I'd almost convinced myself I'd done it.
The singer thought they had succeeded in ending their life.

When I started writing, I smeared my blood on every page to remind myself that everything beautiful has a consequence.
The singer wrote with their own blood to remind themselves of the price of beauty.

I'd hoped to stall the clotting long enough to give myself to the craft and let myself go.
The singer wanted to delay their blood from clotting to continue writing until they could let themselves go.

I have died so many times.
The artist has been through many difficult experiences and survived them.

So when I told you that loving you almost makes life worth it, I was not joking.
The artist is sincere when they say that loving the person they're addressing makes life more meaningful.

When I tell you that loving you almost makes me forget how much I hate myself, it is not poetry.
The singer genuinely feels that loving the person they're addressing helps them overcome self-hate, and it's not just a poetic gesture.

Loving you is taking all of the love I could never give myself and putting it to good use.
The singer is now able to direct the love they once gave to others towards themselves after finding this person to love.

It is reminding myself that if someone can love a dying thing this way, can hold the Lazarus of my body and give thanks for the way it holds back.
The artist finds it inspiring that someone can love them despite their flaws and limitations.

If someone can kiss the scars, administer the pills, absorb the bad days and wake up smiling next to me, then I can try to breathe again.
The artist feels that the support of the person they're addressing makes it possible for them to keep going despite their struggles with self-hate.

Because self-love does not always come first.
The artist acknowledges that loving oneself is not always easy or straightforward.

Or second.
Loving oneself might not come second either.

Or even ever.
Loving oneself might not come at all.

But your love be the guardrail on the ledge, be the drawers that hide all the sharp things,
The love of the person they're addressing provides protection against self-harm.

Be the body that carries my collapsed frame into bed, be the flowers you bought,
The person they're addressing is nurturing and caring, bringing comfort to the singer even when they're struggling.

Because even though they are dying too, they still dance.
Love doesn't necessarily cure all of the singer's problems, but it still adds beauty to life that makes it worth living.

Love will not heal me, will not wipe my slate of a body clean - I will always be a woman of wounds, of rope-mark neck and melted skin.
Although love is helpful and meaningful to the artist, it cannot erase the physical and emotional damage they've suffered.

Love will not heal me, but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself, and maybe teach me a joke that I can stay alive long enough to laugh at.
Love can't fix the artist's problems, but it can support them through their healing process and help them find joy in life.

I love you, enough to want to love myself too.
The singer's love for the person they're addressing inspires them to seek self-love.