I hate myself.

I think it's finally time I fully, openly acknowledged the fact.

I don't know when it started, or why... it's just been a fact of my life, similar to the fact that I am a girl. It's just... there. And it shapes my daily interactions with other people, with myself... with God...

And now, as I my gaze travels across my walls, my ceiling, my dressers, my floor, I see disconnected fragments of who I am. Like a shaft of sunlight refracting through a prism, pictures and trinkets splayed across tan paint reveal glimpses of who I am.

The funny thing is, if I didn't know myself, I would probably like me. If I wandered into this bedroom unwittingly, I would be curious about this girl with the wall of photographs and drawings (and muscle cars). I would admire the rock collection, fiddle with the keychains that hang from hooks, and appreciate the shimmering softness of the gold curtain that hangs over the closet.

So many bits and pieces of myself, on full display... I can take this diluted version of her. But not what goes on inside my head. Not all the time.

Why do I hate myself?

I hate me for hating me.

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