I am imperfectly alone
in my assessment of self.
Knowing that I know so little
but more than others know.
Not as much as there is to know,
my knowledge is imperfect,
but what I see is leaves no room for redemption.
No second opinion will reveal a better me.
The darkness and filth
within myself
deprives me of the luxury of pride.
Knowing that I'm a broken human
allows me no self-esteem.

And yet, I derive it, illogically
by comparing myself to others.
Those who I know nothing about,
claiming myself better than they.
Hoping that eternity grades on a curve.
I must turn to non-reason to compensate
for what my reason tells me.

But also, I use the same faulty grading system
devised in this imperfect mind
to say that others are better than myself.
For false humility, for shame, I say
that they are less broken.
I deceive myself into thinking that they are better
than I am.
And, knowing what I do of myself, they seem to be.
On the outside, they are better than I know myself to be.
But my knowledge of myself leads to conclusions
jumped to, but ascertaining that
others are every bit as broken as I.

But this willing suspension of disbelief
is the only way that I can love them.
And so I must delude myself.
Must ignore what I know.
Because he did to.