Sometimes I hate myself, just a little, almost like a joke I tell only myself and that no one else will ever get. I don't really believe it, not really — not entirely. I don't think it's even true, I don’t really hate myself (or at least I know better than to hate myself) but there’s this deep seated loathing, that lingers and tastes bitter like poison on the back of my throat. And sometimes I just choke on it.
[Wish human interactions were easier.]
Life has no do-overs, but I feel like I'm on repeat.
Over and over and over…