a self-love manifesto


Apologize less, bite more.
Dust your eyelashes in powdered sugar, and give yourself a taste.
Gift your smiles like friendship bracelets and
Write made-up words in dust-soaked dictionaries, but
Leave them undefined. And when your skin cracks under the weight of it all,
Massage it, feel friction create warmth create smoothness.

Create company alone.
Chat with each of your selves like they’re honored dinner guests—
Introduce them to each other, network, let tension hover.
Take the last piece of pie without asking. And when the bartender calls you “dear,”
Grow antlers. Eat tulips. Glare into the headlights because you understand every word.
Be cryptic and direct.

Braid your language around your waist and
Tuck your tongue under your middle finger, just in case.
You could lick your wounds, of course, but it’s best to cook them—
They can be boiled; they contain nutrients.
Salt the dish with tears. Season liberally.
Play trashcan basketball with the names of politicians.

Let your heart break, and build a mosaic.
Hang it next to the mirror in your bathroom.
Stay awhile.
Hug your belly button.
Lick your lips.

Kristina Perkins, 

Assistant Editor, What the F Magazine

Art by Paige Wilson, Co-President, What the F Magazine


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