Late Night Scribblings

These were written on Friday night, I think. Between eleven and two-thirty, so maybe Saturday morning.

Hate me, love me.
I know I should know the things I deserve. They tell me I should see how I deserve to be treated, to be loved. They can't see under my skin, they can't see the battle I wage to believe my own worth. I tell myself things I should already know and pretend they sink in. I try to stifle the jabs at myself as they surge up in mind. It's harder than they claim, you can't deny your own flaws. Sometimes you can't even see that they are more good than ill for your well being. Yet I feel powerless to stop doing what I don't like, feeling what I know isn't true. And I want to be the one to love myself like I should, but I can't lie and say that I do. I've wanted to tell everyone that I don't deserve them, especially him, but I don't know what reaction I expect. If they tell me how wrong I am I'm just a bitch fishing for a compliment, if they tell me I'm right then where am I? When most of those who once loved me seem to hold me in ghosts of memories, with fondness, I feel lost in the wilderness of who I've been growing into.


You wrap your arms around me and tell me I'm awesome, because it's the only word you can summon to compare to the way you feel. And what can I say to that, to thank and return that amazing feeling. What words can I find while you reach for the essence of that feeling and fall to the word you know. I can only smile and thank you, because I don't know the words either. I can only press them into you through my skin, hold your head to my chest, squeeze you close, stroke your hair. How can you ever ask me to let you go, I know I make it hard for you to even try. The devil in me says, why do something you don't want to? It would be so easy to hold onto you, all of tonight, and tomorrow too. So hard to learn to let you go.