I Hate Me

I hate me.

There.

No metaphor.

No pretty way

to make it easier to read.

Some days

I genuinely cannot stand

the person inside my skin.

I hate the decisions

I knew were wrong

while I was making them.

The people I hurt.

The people I let hurt me.

The way I can see

every red flag from a mile away

and still walk toward it

like maybe this time

red means welcome.

I hate how much

I fucking feel.

How one word

can ruin my day.

How silence

can turn into rejection

before I even know the truth.

How my mind

can take something small

and drag it through

every wound I’ve ever had

until suddenly

I’m bleeding from all of them.

I hate that I know better

and don’t always do better.

That I apologize

then repeat myself.

That I want peace

but sometimes

I’m the one

setting everything on fire.

And God—

I hate looking backward.

Because hindsight

makes everything obvious.

Every exit I ignored.

Every boundary I crossed.

Every moment

I abandoned myself

just to keep someone else

from leaving.

People tell you

to love yourself.

Like it’s easy.

Like you can stand

in front of a mirror,

say something kind,

and undo years

of believing

you’re the problem.

I’m not there yet.

Some days

forgiveness feels impossible.

But maybe

I don’t have to love myself

today.

Maybe I just have to stop

being cruel to the person

who already hurts.

Maybe I can look at her

without calling her worthless.

Maybe I can admit

she fucked up

without deciding

she is a fuckup.

Because underneath

everything I hate—

she’s still trying.

Still waking up.

Still carrying consequences

and somehow believing

she might become better

than the choices behind her.

So yeah—

sometimes

I hate me.

But I’m starting to wonder

if hatred is just another wound

I’ve mistaken

for the truth.

And maybe someday

I won’t look at myself

and see everything

I wish I could erase.

Maybe I’ll see someone

who survived being

her own worst enemy

and finally learned

how to stop fighting herself.