a really angry poem

fuck you. and every grain of love you’ve given me. fuck my hopes, and dreams, and all the things i want to be so desperately.

fuck this world, for screwing me over. because i might be the last generation it ever gets to see. and there’s something so fundamentally messed up about knowing that, right from the start… that the world is shit, and i’m probably gonna die… but hey. i mean, someone had to do it, right?

fuck the mess in my room. fuck the mess in my head. because no matter how hard i try, i still can’t make sense of it. and i still don’t want to leave this bed…

fuck my to-do list. fuck getting up at 5am for some strangers on the internet. fuck the sun, burning into my retinas, and dry-swallowing my meds. i’m done.

because you know what the worst part is?

sometimes, i hate myself even more than i hate all of this.

I try to be calm. I try to be chill and mellow. I try to put other people first no matter what, and only show my frustration when I can’t take it anymore. In my head, I am that person—your nice, submissive, agreeable daughter.

But honestly, in reality, that’s not who I am at all. I get emotional really easily. A lot of the time, I bite off more than I can chew. And I don’t know if this is just a me thing for not, but my stress can very, very quickly turn to anger. After a lot of therapy, I have learned to control it almost all the time. Scream in pillows, write it out, etc. But sometimes, it just overtakes me. Controls every part of me. This tidal wave of self-hatred and sadness and fury, over something as little as having trouble coordinating plans with somebody, or my cat throwing up on my carpet, or a flunked test. And suddenly, it’s all too much.

And I know, that’s not exactly the healthiest way of coping. But right now, I’m not really sure what else to do. I guess I just feel a lot of things, honestly—and it’s both my greatest strength and my Achilles heel. (And also, probably a bit of a teenager thing, I guess.)

Lots of love,


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