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.
Through the Fog 