I hate myself.
I hate everything about me.
I hate my stupid hair and how I play with it so much, as if I could ever get it to look good, when I’m such an ugly monster.
I hate my stupid laugh, because it’s loud and comes at the worst of times because I have the worst sense of humor. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, and it grates my ears and makes me wish I would just choke on my own spit and never make a noise ever again.
I hate my arms because they are covered in scars that only prove I was to weak to push that extra inch, where I would actually reach a vein and bleed a bit more, so I could do the world a favor and just disappear.
I hate my eyes because they look so tired even though I do nothing to warrant that feeling.
I hate my nose because it’s too big, but also to small, and it’s in the middle of the face that I hate so much.
I hate my ears because they hear how small I sound, I hate my hands because they can’t hold anything aside from my own greedy desires, I hate my heart because it beats away just fine, as if it has the right to keep beating, to keep pumping blood throughout this wasteful excuse for a life.
I hate the burns on my right arm I got from working as a cook because they remind me of the wasted weekends I could have spent doing anything, but I spent them as a nobody cook where nobody gave a damn about me.
I hate my skin, my smell, my stupid legs that keep walking me to and from work, but won’t really take me anywhere at all.
I hate my thoughts, all so ugly and unsightly, so conceited and lacking any empathy, any real love and care.
I hate…I hate that I can write about everything that has ever happened to me and twist every story, every experience, every single memory into another thing to hate. I hate feeling so empty. I hate feeling like I need to be saved and I hate knowing I can’t be the one to save me. I hate waiting for my time to start moving again. I hate waiting for someone to make my time move again. I hate it. I hate time, clocks and calendars to mark how much of a waste I have been in numbers and dates, months and lifetimes gone by the wayside, thrown towards the sky and cumbusting into nothingness because I am just a stupid speck of dust who ruined a perfectly good moment on the morning of August 10th, 1990, bursting into the life of 2 perfectly fine adults who would go on to be amazing parents to 2 amazing kids. I am a black spot on so many existences and I could make up for it all by dying.
What a thought though, right? Thinking my death would atone for the sin of my very existence. I can’t make up for who I am. I can never suffer enough to make up for what I am. I can only continue to hate myself. No praying to God; evil such as me does not deserve something as amazing as the idea of God. I am a monster. Monsters can only hurt, so do the one thing that makes sense, monster.
I hate myself.