You don’t know about the latent self-hatred.
The closing of your eyes to avoid your reflection as you pass the mirror.
The delusion that you are doing others a favour by not showing up where you promised attendance.
The panicked silence that buttons your lips to a close whenever someone asks what your purpose is here, what are you plans for today, how is your tomorrow.
The sweaty jitters and uninhibited stutter, the shiver when someone makes contact with your skin just to remind you that you are alive.
The constant reminder from all folks: family, friends, workmates, foes, acquaintances, strangers, that you don’t fit the bill because to exist is not enough.
The fear that you have scarred your reputation to a point of disrepair lends you despair.
The despite that is born in your soul when you see someone flourishing in a position you wish to be in is disabling – a reminder of your shining inadequacy when reaching for your own goals.
The knowing that pain is supposedly temporary but it hurts so you refrain.
The screaming for attention to which nobody heeds, the desire for others to pay attention but also ignore your pleas.
The pain of rough edges in this rounded world.
The wish of a dignified death, like a disease.
You don’t know about the living self-hatred, how it develops amongst the weeds.
Just pray for its death for me, before me, please.