I'd like to put my two cents out into the ether. I highly don't anyone would read this, which, all things considered is probably a good thing.
I think I was born wrong? Like broken ig. I mean not in two, something that's visible, but just slightly hollow in the inside. Something that's there and you know it, you think everyone has it and feels this way and maybe that's just a part of being a human. Everyone has a hole in them, they try to fill it but it never really goes away. I always disliked this about myself, my friends could move on from a slight, forget it tomorrow, but all alights on me would smudge. They would perforate, the ink would settle deep inside me. Gradually. At first, I too could ignore this ink, but smudges in the same spot, often leave marks. They don't go away. Eventually the deep ink in my skin becomes part of me. I am what you say I am if you say it often enough. I will buy into it, reinforce it, make it my identity and I will make it hurt me. This ink accumulates and it is me now. There is no ink without me, there is no me without ink. I am dirty now, and I could never be clean.
I thought other people were the same way. They're honestly not, other people trip, scrape their knee, get up and keep running. I trip, and i start to question why I'm running in the first place. Is it not better to bleed? Do I not honestly deserve this? Would it not be better to let this ink spill. I don't get up. I stay down. Life hits me with a punch, sometimes I try to get up I fight. I fight for a day, I fight well. I do not fight tomorrow. I do not fight the next day, or the day after that, not until life punches me again. I am only a one day fighter. I look at people who overcame, who saw radical change. I wonder how? How could a singular moment change a person to such a degree? I am too polluted, there is too much ink in me. There is no changing it. I am stuck, I have always been this way, I am this way, I will always be this way.
A good for nothing. Never good at anything. Shallow, small, tired, lazy, bad, pathetic, unworthy, ungrateful. I will die, and whenever I do, there will be no legacy left of me, except regret that I even existed in the first place. Objectively, everyone in my life would have been better off had I not existed. There is still time, I can save them from myself, from the misery that is I. I just need to be strong and fight one last time, and then there will be no fight anymore. Just ink.