I can’t stomach what I am. I make myself sick.
I go to sleep with blurry eyes, a dream still infantile and fetal in my throat. My sorrow I buried well but it’s unearthing itself, dragging itself up through the mud.
My year-long headache grows persistent, numbing. I hate this form of becoming - if suffering is what it takes, then I do not want at all.
We disgust myself. That’s the thing about self-hatred, it’s careful. Creeps up on you. I’m yo-yo-ing, tossed to and fro, are these an artist’s shores? Or is this the wave to end them all? I hate this all, I want this all, I want nothing at all.
This paradox burns my gut. I am incensed to glory, to rage, yet always this self-made ash descends to apathy.
I won’t be anything. How do you know? Because I don’t want to be anything.
What help do you need? Another’s life. Less jealousy. To turn back time. To know that I should’ve known better. I can pinpoint where this started, when I let the needle in. That’s what this misery is - an invitation. To mourn memories less. To not live and breathe in dreams. To exorcise this burning nostalgia. To burn myself away. Death. Peace. People. Solitude. To live. To love. To be alone, to love the silence when I need the words.
What does it mean to live? To suffer - no, that’s not quite right.
What does it mean to live? To live within conflict - almost right.
What does it mean to live? To create conflict, to burn yourself into it. What is it I want? Everything. What is it you want? Nothing.
These weary circles despise the mind that treads them. How to stop a thought process you know so well? How to stop the tenderness of violent dislike? I have been so careful. And I have been so loud. Do you see, yet? Do you see?
