fine, fuck you.

doing the hard thing.

doing it myself.

here I am.

I am multiple.

I am morphing.

I am vulnerable.

I am frustrated.

I cannot stand slight things.

I will hunt.

You should pray.

I censor myself,

a different face, now,

a new day, a change

of pace. I am unsure

of myself. Who is “I”?

I need pain.

My daily dose of adult misery.

I court the line of fake death.

I sway and grin at the simplicities.

I am flush with wanting.



and it is a little bit like,

“Christ, what am I doing?”

I hate myself. Whoever

“I” is and whoever “myself”

portends to be. I roll

my eyes, I know this is an

ontologically incorrect

statement, congrats, you’ve

done it, whoever “you” are.

I think about my headache.

I think about my homework.

I think about my commitments.

I blink against the drowsy.

I had cordoned off this time

to try and make something right

in myself, because I was not going

to do anything generative

in this state. But I don’t think

I’ve made anything right. I’ve filled

my head with disgusting images,

because I’ll do anything for a distraction.

It’s so whatever.

It isn’t even doing anything for me.

I know my writing is vague, I keep

it that way so anyone who sees it

doesn’t have to know the nitty gritty.

The details are shameful, just

like me.



I wish it were simple.

I wish it did not occur so naturally.

The sadness, that is.

And the frustration.

And the anger.

Not at anything in particular

as far as I can tell.

But maybe that means I’m doing

a bad job keeping track of things.

Or being present.

I don’t know. I’m so mortal.

It could be something to do

with her, or them.

With work, or my ambitions.

My fledgeling routines.

My spending, my schedule.

Biting off more than I can chew.

Crash landing at burnout.

Ring modulation, violent

swings.



You know, that could have been

communicated better. When put

into contrast, my unceremonious

candidness against your experience

of the beautiful and serene. Communicating

through inference. You did not say what

you would prefer. You did not say how it

made you feel. It’s alright.

I’ve done similar. I know I’m blind.

Breakdowns. I don’t know that I

can join you in reverie. It makes me

want to give up. I don’t know what you want,

and I can’t see the path to making myself different.

It starts to feel impossible. And I know

this is the kind of ruminating and

self-referential emotional scaling

that you had said you would

benefit from the reduction or

removal of. It is just

such misery. It is

such misery.



Old patterns, you said.

And this is an old one for me.

I’m sorry I’m so sensitive.

I’m sorry I notice these things.

I’m sorry I can’t seem to let them go.

I’m sorry I jump to the assumption

that you won’t help.

I’m sorry.

I know it’s hard to love me.

I know it’s hard to love anyone

who says stuff like, “I know it’s

hard to love me.” I know

I have to get better at loving

myself. I know there’s

probably an easier way to be

doing this. I know I know

I know.





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