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a poem about the hurt we know

Photo by Akshar Dave🌻 on Unsplash | A face in the darkness

I’m sad. I’m angry.
I’m all the things I’m told not to be.

I fear. I hurt.
I take my time with this.

But when I’m feeling happy or fine it’s like I can barely stand the bliss.

Too foreign to my bones. Ready and willing
to be heavy. Not sure what lightness is.

Accepting the constant ache as necessary
for my being to Be. Who am I if not
the hate & loathing
that was projected onto me?

I want nothing more than to be alone,
really. But I fear death like
I fear criticism from my mother.
I wait for it, expect it, am pleasantly surprised
when it’s not there. Way too welcoming
when it is. I hate it here. How do I fix it here?

How I do fix me?