Hurl
Vent, sorry. I depress myself on purpose because I know I need it. Because if I don’t do it, no one else will. And I tell myself I deserve it. I need to do better. I have to be better. I can’t stand the version of me that stares back in mirrors and reflections—creases, scars, the tired lines that don’t go away no matter how much I sleep. Ugly. Unforgivable. I need to be better. I say it like a prayer. I need to stop. Stop what? Everything. All of it. The cycles, the patterns, the small scraps of progress I make and then burn down the very next day. Every time I fix something, I ruin it twice over. Every time I crawl forward, I trip myself before I can stand. It’s pathetic. I am pathetic. I’ve gotten in my own way again. Undone all the progress that took me years to even scrape together. Do you know how exhausting that is? To drag yourself across glass for years, bleeding, limping, just to finally see the faint outline of better days, and then rip it all apart you...
