The stories that we tell ourselves
makes us all, of who we are
from the harshest tirades of criticisms
to the gentlest whispers of self-acceptance
each layers upon the who, the what, the why
of all that we become and all that we are
The stories that we tell ourselves
colours entirely, the lives we choose to live
each thought, each word, each action
all impressions, all reflections, all interactions
paints a mark upon our characters
and leaves its trace upon our soul
The stories that we tell ourselves
make us judge our world a little more
from the rights and wrongs we see
through the lenses of our perspectives
to the skirmish, confrontations before us
and the quiet, gentle harmonies we crave
The stories that we tell ourselves
the little voices in our heads
harsh, callous, sarcastic offences
chipping away at our porcelain worth
whispering words of self-judgement
almost always lined with self-hate
The stories that we tell ourselves
should never make us feel unloved
yet for so many, perhaps even all of us
that little voice always says
‘You’ll never be good enough’
‘It’s not even worth a try’
The stories that we tell ourselves
that incorrect judgement of self
that denigrates and disparages,
diminishing all self-worth and value
with little lies of slurs and slight
and larger bouts of abuse and insult
The stories that we tell ourselves
should buoy us up, not tear us down
each should be a monologue of kindness
a homily of compassion, a soliloquy of love
a kinder, gentler way of speaking
to all the loving that is you
5 July 2019
(c) Li-ling Ooi
