Feast of Self-Compassion
a poem of lament
Last week, I was told I had self-compassion.
I cashed that check, took the balance,
and debited it down to the last drop.
This week, I am licking the bottom
of the self-compassion barrel.
Attempting to lap up any remaining
drip, morsel, crumb…
I have tried so hard and yet the flavor
is gone, the barrel is dry,
and I am parched.
The tears I cry,
taste of doubt, regret, weak confidence,
and a backslide into old patterns.
The breaths and sighs I breathe
move me through the moments of
waiting, of frustration but do nothing
to season my emotional soup
to resemble the feast of self-compassion
that I had last week.