It’s not that
easy.  It’s not that easy.  It’s not that easy.
I will not make it
this time.  I am burrowing a hole for
myself, digging my own grave.  Only this
time, people in my professional life are handing me the shovel and watching me
sink. 
I’ve discovered my
problem . . . at least one of them.  I
hate myself.  Sounds simple, doesn’t it?  I should just stop it then, shouldn’t I?  I should stop hating myself.
It’s not that
easy.
The roots of my
hatred extend beyond time, and no amount of remediation will allow me to
transcend the wickedness I deserve.
Oh, if you only
knew how it rocks me . . . devastates me. 
I am good for nothing . . .but I wish I were good for something more . . . more than abuse.
I try as hard, as
hard, as hard as I can, and it still isn’t good enough.  I still at the end of the day am me:
profoundly defective.
And damn it to
hell if no one believes me.  I KNOW
it.  I LIVE it every day.  And I’m tired of suffering.  I’m so, so tired of suffering.  God be with me, I’m so tired of suffering.
It’s so bad.  I really can’t take it anymore.  I can’t continue to hold on by the web of a
spider. 
It’s such a heavy,
magnificent weight that rests on my back. 
And I’m plunging to the bottom and I implore you not hold me back.  Let me sink. 
Let me die.  Let me not know this
misery anymore. 
There are no happy
songs in my head.  No hopeful words exist.
No suggestions or subliminal messages you give me to pretend everything will
work out.
It’ so, so over.
I can’t believe it
when you tell me I’m good, and you won’t believe me when I tell you I’m bad.
Oh my god, I need
a hug . . . and a bullet. 
Boom!