4. When I Love Myself After them— the ones who came for my warmth but not my weather, the ones who drank from my well but never stayed to till the soil— I found myself again at the edge of the grove, barefoot, dark-skinned, unbowed. I looked in the mirror and saw my own hands— the ones that have fed men, blessed men, buried men. And I kissed my knuckles like they were gospel. I ran a bath in silence. Lit a candle for every boy who couldn’t love me. Then one for the man who did. And two more for the one who never left— the one whose laughter lives in my own throat. Me. I touched my own chest and whispered, You are not lonely. You are layered. You are not broken. You are born. I made oxtails and cornbread for myself and said grace aloud, thanked the line of Black men who chose softness over spectacle, who dared to love each other in a world that barely lets us breathe. I danced slow in my room, hard and soft at once, and I felt my body swell— not with need, but with knowing. That this temple, this tenderness, this thunder I carry in my blood, does not wait for white recognition. It does not beg for return. It is already whole.