I Don’t Love Me, So What?

How dare you make me feel bad,
for not loving myself.
Yes, you,
you in the mirror.
You across the table.
You, on my phone,
telling me about your concern
without… actually… asking… me
what it is that I need.
How dare all of you.

I don’t have to love me.
I don’t have to like me.

My mind is twisting right now,
and there is no one in the driver’s seat.
No border collie to warn others
that little me has fallen down the
bottom of a whiskey bottle.
So what if I’ve been drinking since 1?
I’ll drink to the setting sun if I want.

Because I made it to another sunset,
just like I made it to the sunrise.
Without.
You.

And I may be fighting something
made of childhood nightmares,
but I’m fighting it my way right now.
And I don’t have time to process
the guilt you are adding to my shame.

I don’t have the means to stay colored
within your predetermined lines.

Because I’m anger.
I’m Jack’s unlimited rage,
and I have decided to swallow the key
to this tarnished, rusting cage.
If you are uncomfortable…good.

Great.

Fantastic really.
Be uncomfortable.
Be unsteady and unsure.
Be fucking afraid.
Then you will know my mind for
a split second before you turn your
emotions away.

Just know my shoulders read “No Vacancy.”

Don’t say you’re sorry.
Keep your concern.
If I’m to be a victim of my foolish pride,
well…scars are my thing.

Because I get to do this.
I get to not love me the way I see fit.
Because I have loved me so deeply,
that when you were telling me how
me being gone would hurt you,
you didn’t see what me being gone,
would do to me.

You didn’t hear that
I never thought the world didn’t deserve me.

It’s just…
What did I do to deserve this world?…

So I get to lose it.
I get to hate,
and rage,
and hurt.

I get to lay in the bitterness.
Bury my life in self-evidence.
I get insanity by my own definition
for absolutely no conceivable reason.

It makes sense to me…

I don’t love myself for it.

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