Dear ghost,
It has come again. The blues of my discontent where I am suspicious of every creature. Even my degrading self.
I am afraid I have failed myself. I am scared that they hate me. I fear that they see me as a mistake. Above all, that I am disgustingly incompetent. I will try every possible way to convince myself that I am being delusional.
Even then, I spiral into a whirl of anxiety. I gradually fall into the grave. Then, I am convinced that I am right. I am sorry, I do not feel secure with you. Your existence offer no consolation to me. Every step I take echoes that you see me as a nuisance. Every smile is an effort. You hardly gave me the warmth to trust you. Thus, however shall I trust you? I would rather you would honestly say that you don't like me.
Yours