but this little town, this little house

7 Jan

It’s not even 8am and I’m doing that thing where I sit in the dark and think about how I hate myself for no/every reason. And it used to be only really sad, but for a while now, it’s been funny and I laugh about it in the shower when I scrub my forearms too hard, when the blood rushes to the surface of my skin and stays there for hours after in clusters of red dots that aren’t, but look, painful. I don’t lift my chin and cackle as mascara drips off my face, because I was never compelled to, because it’s not that funny, because I’m really not so blatantly consumed by the goodness of my evil. But sometimes I ha, out loud, ha ha, because it’s the one of few ways I know to express how stupid it is, I am, for believing I don’t actually love myself more than everyone in a truly repulsive sort of way.


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