I do this thing where I sit on my bed,
or on a train, or as I walk the streets,
or eat my breakfast, or my lunch, or my tea,
Or as I lie there just trying to get some sleep,
Or as I try to hold steady a conversation…

where I list and loathe every mistake I
have ever made, and every stupid action
makes it way under the microscope and I
dwell on it, glued my eye to the glass,
Now I can’t pull myself away without
prying away my eye and god, it hurts,
and for every single mistake I remember,
I do this.

And to what result, to what consequence,
Only that of making me hate myself more than I
already did, only that of bashing myself up internally,
It would have happened anyway, now it just happens more harshly,
But I tell myself it doesn’t matter anyway and despite
the fact that I know I am the biggest liar, somehow I
let myself believe that my feelings don’t matter anyway.