Am I just a punching bag to you? A bean-filled bag ready to release your stress, whenever you're upset?
Because that's what it seems like as you put me through the same torture every damn day. As if I didn't crave death to rid me of your ridicule, you make me fucking beg. My very organs are suffering from the fact that I have seen you every day and breathe the same air.
Cigarette ash is more tolerable than being in any room with you, for the very urge to pluck out my own eyeballs grows with the simple thought of you.
My heart is shrinking and becoming rotten by the second, icky mold and spores filling the inside of my hollow shell. As liquids from inside leak out of me like sewage, crumbling pieces of flesh bleeding into my bones, with blades being my sense of peace.
Every word you spit from your mouth makes me want to plunge a knife deep into my cranium until every system in my body shuts down. Hate is not even the word I would describe what I feel for you; it is absolute pure disgust.
And, no amount of money could ever make me like you or put up with seeing your face. When I am away from you, I am much happier. Free even.
I feel my life becoming meaningful again when you are away, like words can finally come out of my mouth, because when I am around you. It reminds me how much I hate myself, how much I disdain being in my own skin, and how much I know that death couldn't take away that feeling.
It's bad enough to feel the hate spewing out of people's tongues, but to actually live with it every day, like a sore that can't go away, is torture. It's like my own miniature version of hell, reminding me how little I believe in myself.
No matter how much money or how well I do in a conversation, I still feel like shit, not good enough for myself or any mortal being on this planet. Happiness is a true illusion because if you aren't happy, you aren't truly free, at least not in the sense that you are content. You are bound by sadness like it is attached to you, another limb to carelessly fit itself onto the slug that you already feel like.
A pitiful walking sack, trying not to fall between the cracks, helplessly leaking out your tears like a river. Awaiting one day to fall into that body of water and drift away as if you never existed. The river dried up like the memory of you that once was, peacefully leaving the minds of your loved ones as you watch, as they start anew.
For deep in your soul, you know this life wasn't meant for this, you weren't ready to be born in this, this mind slavery of work and torture. Never truly knowing rest for the next day, you have to wake up and do it all again, like your bones don't beg you every day to stop. Aches and pains all for the scrap of a tree and for the piece of bark to be spent in less than a day.
Your feet are burning with blisters from the constant walking, and your eyes are barely able to keep themselves open as each blink is a false promise of safety. Your brain knows this, and so does your heart, as you practically demand to smile for strangers, becoming the domesticated animal the world always wanted you to be. Repeated thoughts of heavy work on your skin make you itch and itch, for you would rather pull out your own teeth than go back to the hellhole that defines your life.
Scraping every penny from what they give you, all for it to be spent in less than a week, less than a day, really. Taking a peek at your savings only to see it's either stagnant or plummeted, so it's back to another day at the factory. The brain factory, where they suck any real value out of you and pump it with their techniques and rules. Forcing you to memorize an unrecognizable pattern all to appease family members who barely even talk to you. Which, to tell you the truth, they really don't care about you unless it's your last breath.
They will be the ones who feed into the grueling suffering until you can't take it anymore and til it overcomes you. Some will even call you names or lazy if you ever think of taking a day off, because what are days off when your ancestors didn't get that luxury? What are days off when your ancestors didn't even get the pay that you are so dreading? What is taking care of yourself? Because your ancestors, well, they just wanted to make it. So many people might tell us many things about ourselves and how we should be, but how do they know?
Are we supposed to live for them the whole time, our birth meant for people we only see every 3 years? Why does their opinion matter so much, and why does it hurt the most? In a world of cruelty, living through more pain with the people who share your own DNA feels like fire.
So, if life is living torture and so is death, what are you really left with? An empty limbo of you just simply existing? It's like a lose-lose either way, so if you're losing, what can you do to feel like living?
I don't have the true answer, but what I think will always help is going back to the origin, the source of what made you happy in the first place. Your true passion without any input to the output, the beginning of the earth before all the fossil fuels, and stepping into the part of nature before the buildings. Your true happy place, because without it, you're really not even alive, you're just here, for the benefit of others and not yourself, and above everything…You are what matters first.
Even if it doesn't seem like it, this is your story.