an atom split in two.
Sometimes I love myself so goddamned much that I know I’m the savior of this forsaken world. Other times, I hate myself with such white blinding rage I’m convinced I’m the source of all dark matter and energy.
The thing that remains constant is the extremes, the intensity and the fact that my hate or love can change mind and matter, micro and macro, in and out, up and down, here and there. It’s all about me in other words and how great I can hate or love myself.
The grand thing of it all is that what I hate most about myself is absolutely positively not under my control. Things I cannot change. I was not born the person that gets attention, maybe in another time, another world, another dream, but not this one, my friends, I’m not going to be the girl who poems and songs and sculptures are made of, but I WANT to be that girl, and at times I think I AM that girl, so very misunderstood by my society and my culture, but still very much that girl; and it’s that love and that hate doing such a brilliant job of making me crazy crazy crazy, that juxtaposition that leaves me no room for peace. Can’t I either feel good about me all the time or loathe me all the time? That is so much more manageable, so much less stressful. Give me some of that.
I suppose no one gets it that easy. And fuck the bastards who do.