Hate is a Strong Word But..

I Hate Myself

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Quietly. Constantly.

It lives under my skin, humming like an old fluorescent light that never shuts off.

I hate the way I breathe through days I don’t want.

I hate how my body moves like a ghost inhabiting something that isn’t mine.

I hate the weight of existing — the endless cycle of pretending, collapsing, rebuilding, pretending again.

I’ve tried to love myself, but every time I get close, I pull away.

Maybe because love feels like a lie when you’ve learned to survive without it.

Maybe because hating myself feels safer — familiar, predictable.

I’ve carved apologies into my silence.

I’ve bled forgiveness that never came.

And still, the mirror waits — patient, cruel — asking who I am without the pain.

But I don’t know anymore.

Maybe there’s nothing left underneath it.

Maybe I’ve become the echo of every broken promise I ever made to myself.

And maybe that’s why it’s so quiet now.

Because even my soul is tired of screaming.