Self-Loathing

Wet. Weird. Warm. Your first kiss.

Mocha almond fudge. But it used to be cookie dough.

Ms. Kitagawa. Kindergarden. Dolphins in Meadows.

I know you. I’ve known you. But I don’t love you.

Every crook every cranny.

Broken skin in your folds.

Beauty marks on ankles.

Though you thought were moles.

Growth marks still mar your upper thigh.

Cold fingers and toes at night.

White hair hidden beneath.

Deep cries seeped past skin deep.

I’ve seen you grow. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

I’ve known you your whole life and yet still getting to know you.

You’re still alive and evolving and that’s good right?

You’ve changed and keep changing, and yet I’m still waiting.

Waiting for that something within you.

Waiting for that something to love you.

There are times when I’m sick of you. To be with you and never have a break from you. I don’t want to be co-dependent from you, but it can’t be helped. You breathe in and my lungs are filled. You breathe out and my chest sinks. You fear and my heart races, you’re sad and I cry.

I know I should love you. I know you’re great. I’m proud of you, I swear, I am.

But it’s strange that I just can’t love you. But is that true? That I’m not able to? Or is it really because I don’t want to and I’m not willing to?

It’s not a question. It’s not like I don’t know. I know.

It’s actually because I hate you.

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