A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You looked at me, your features marked
with concern and an uncertainty. I asked
the matter (my love, never play poker)
and your cogs turned to form a sentence
portraying your fear with clarity:
you do not love yourself enough yet.
I wanted to rebut. Denial immediately
clamoured to say “I do”
but I forced her silence for I knew her
(instantly) to be wrong, and my respect
for you is too great for deliberate falsehoods,
and I knew your fears spring from a soil of love,
knew that you love me more than I love myself, 
knew that as I strive to love myself more, 
yours is a love to emulate. I tried
to find an argument that maybe your comment
was irrelevant, right here, right now. I wanted
anything that could deflect your arrow,
prevent the deep strike to my heart, 
my soul, my core. All I could muster was
I know. 
I know. Your arrow is expertly whittled,
accurate. Self-love of any sort is such a novelty
and still a lesson - and you know
how hard it is for me to focus on study.
Self-love is still for me a lofty goal
I’m not even convinced is attainable.
But here is a realisation I’ve had:
I’m done begging. 
I’m done asking for love I deserve from others.
There remains now but one from whom I would beg
attention and affection: myself.
My own worth remains an abstract noun
whose exact definition eludes me,
but my understanding has grown enough
to know that if she is insufficient 
for any given individual to notice and honour,
then I neither want nor need their pretty lies.