Someone is trying to talk themselves into self-love, and the poem admits how hard that is. The speaker repeats "I will love myself" like a prayer, but the middle stanza shows what that prayer is up against. On some nights they cry, claw at their own skin, and fixate on their failures. The image of taking their self-esteem and crumbling it up like paper is painful and a little desperate. Then comes the flat, honest line: "I do not love that."
The final stanza shifts the mood. The mantra becomes "a faint record gaining strength in repetition," something quiet that slowly gets louder. The speaker doesn't claim to be fixed. The last line, "Even when I am a mess," makes the promise unconditional. The poem feels raw and tender at once: sad and self-critical in the middle, but ending with stubborn, fragile hope that keeps going anyway.