There are times when I hate myself.
Not very often, not very long,
but just enough that I feel like crying,
lying curled up in a ball,
never wanting to move again.
I force my way out of this dark place,
telling myself I am more.
Trying to get past
this harsh little feeling.
I force myself not to cry,
to go on with my day.
I stand up—act strong—
but inside I am weak.
I walk around,
without being seen,
aware of the world beneath my feet.
People brush past without a sound,
a constant reminder that
I’m just some unknown ghost.
There are times when I hate people,
who make this feeling worse.
I prefer the company of characters,
who are confident and sure,
more than the living.
Sometimes there is nothing I can do,
so I just keep rolling on,
against the looming force,
into the blue above.