I am a collection of half-things, nothing in my life is wholly mine

how
I am half rotted, working through this next shedding, suffocating in the bubbles foaming around the fester. It’s so loud, this let go. Deafening.
I see so much of what I’m not I forget what I am and this is a shame. I think I liked me the other day.
Well.
Anger is a secondary response, usually as a projection of hurt or fear. Let us work from there

and the way I don’t want your fingers anywhere near my weakness, my sweetness. The things damaged don’t need your sweat soiling them further, it’s hard enough to wipe the grease of life off my glasses. Everything I see is skewed. Doesn’t matter who’s lying here, me or you, they got in and I’m too proud to let you too.
I will fight this until I ruin what it could’ve been because I refuse to be this weak again.
fuck
Please let me figure this out. The math is backwards. I don’t
I don’t know what’s true-
How angry I am
Or how much I love you

I want to kill you I do
I don’t want to feel this
I decided yesterday

I’m done feeling this.