I don't think it's just me

It's funny. All wrapped up tight in all this dark and loneliness and rain, it's still not making sense, but I know why at least. It must be the terrible television I woke up to. It's just good enough to make me ache something fierce.

It's the self doubt that gets you every time. Some delicate egg full of all the things we worked so hard to become and all the things that just kinda happened. I have, you know. Become something. It's not enough, but it never is. I still spend way too much time thinking that it's not enough.

I wish I could let go, I could not attach importance to where I've been and what I did or fucked up or lost, but that's not me. I'm something that never feels like enough. Inside it's all hollow and echoes, I hate the echoes so much. The reflections in everything. It wouldn't be me to let go, it wouldn't match the other colors in here.

I'm a push. I'm a shove.
I'm very bad with love.

And we get wrapped up with sex and death and cruelty and these things we're ashamed of. Even worse, all the things we're proud of. "I found a heartbreak like a flower. They been growing wild like weeds."

I planted them. Man, they're easy to find. I wanna let go. I wanna settle back into some stupid faith. I wanna let that comfort me. I guess it's not always the royal we I use in place of god. I'm gonna do it again.

Don't mind me, it's just the hour and the thinking and how very bad we always look with our eyes in someone else's reflection. And there's so many reflections to face.

I'm sorry I let things hurt me. I'm sorry I constantly pick scabs. I'm sorry that I not only give it some time but feed it and write it down and, fuck, even get proud of it. I'm sorry I mistake my self opinion for depth of feeling or something decent. I'm sorry I make all the easy things hard and I'm sorry I think this is normal. It's normal for me.

All of you have come along. I hope I've made this interesting at the very least. Thanks.

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