I burned, and I raged, and I cried, and I sobbed.
I wrecked myself.
But still, I hate.
Weakness is anathema.
Pity is simultaneously sought and reviled.
Soft cotton sheets turn scratchy under the wet weight of tears,
and I beat my pillow back into shape.
I am too tired for sleep.
I am too tired for anything.
I am tired of school, and of my friends.
Are you okay?
I am tired of questions, and of hiding behind half-truths.
Yeah, just tired.
I am tired of hating myself.