easy. It’s not that easy. It’s not that easy.
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
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.
hatred extend beyond time, and no amount of remediation will allow me to
transcend the wickedness I deserve.
knew how it rocks me . . . devastates me.
I am good for nothing . . .but I wish I were good for something more . . . more than abuse.
hard, as hard as I can, and it still isn’t good enough. I still at the end of the day am me:
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.
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
songs in my head. No hopeful words exist.
No suggestions or subliminal messages you give me to pretend everything will
when you tell me I’m good, and you won’t believe me when I tell you I’m bad.
a hug . . . and a bullet.