Once a day

At least once a day this sort of... anxiety will come back to me. This fear that I am not
good enough for her and that one day she will accept that she hates me. Every time
she doesn't text me back, I am convinced that she doesn't love me anymore.
After all, who could love me? I am broken and I was never very interesting.
After a few weeks with me, people usually notice how boring I am.
So I am convinced that she merely doesn't realize anything about me. How else
could someone stand to stay with me for one year, four months, and sixteen days?

This poem is about: 
Me

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