For three nights in a row I have dreamed about you. You either angrily told me to go to Hell or took something of mine saying I deserved to lose it for what I did. The only thing stronger than my love for you is the guilt for doing what tore us apart. It constantly haunts me. J.B.
You do not know me.
Not like the others do.
Hate and loathing know me.
They know me through and true.
I am not what I appear to be,
the light that shines is but a glow,
of the torn apart remains,
of the real me you cannot know.
There is no greater condemnation
than that which is your own.
Which forces you, unwillingly,
To blame yourself alone.
From “Self-Hatred” by C. F. Tinney