Being me


Being me feels like sickness in my stomach. Feels like hiding and shame, feels like death. Nothing good can grow from my intoxicated, sick body, sick mind. Being me is looking yourself in the mirror and seeing a monster. It makes the idea of existing painful.

But I don’t have another choice. All in this life starts on me. I can’t hide, I have to live and participate. Is either that or death. And God knows I am not very brave to end with my life, doesn’t matter how painful it gets, I couldn’t do it.

I feel weak, thirsty of energy. I don’t even have the strength for hating myself. And in some sort of way, it feels good. Feels good to lie down, numbed, to feel the tranquility and to be alone. Not more voices in my head telling me all these terrible things about me.

Feels good, leave me alone. And do not come back.



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