Why do I like you?

Why do I like you?

I don't even like me.

Aren't you supposed to love yourself before you even take a step towards the "L" word
to another body other than your own?
I really wished I liked me the way I like you.
And it wouldn't be conceited, because my feelings for you are subtle, and soft. Not obnoxious or too proclaimed. My body inside might shout it all, but my lips remain whispering words I don't even understand. Words that are one syllable, but have a multiplicity of words to define it. I really wished I liked me the way I like you. I'd feel secure, like the blanket I draped across your body that cold night in December.

I'd probably buy myself treats, but not candy. Candy is too tacky for this level of feeling. Treats like a ticket to the theater, a mixed CD with all the songs I felt about myself, homemade clam chowder, the red kind. All for me. And maybe I'd write a book. I suppose that would be called an autobiography, with the typed words in the front "This book is dedicated to myself, Colleen Ladd" And I'd read this book to myself every night, beneath the stars, under the moon, on top of a blanket that was lying among sand and waves- only if I liked myself like I like you.