Why I Hated My Life

Your words, kiss the bitter taste of saliva onto the lips of pavement lusting for the sorrow slathered across your face. You are broken. The burden of all your thoughts drain from your head into your limbs submerging your body in the ground lathering its skin in the stench of all your mistakes. You are disgusted with yourself. You swear and sob beating faults into the foundations of your fists; overfilling ravines with waves maddened by the quakes of your knuckles breaking against the earth. You are pathetic. Your eyelids, damn the currents crashing against its walls. Cinderblocks swing from their twisted and mangled ankles; dangling their feet in the current spitting and scratching at the heels creating its enclosure. You are a failure. Like aqueducts, your tears navigate through eyelashes drowning and flailing in a sea of salt water flooding the shores of your epidermis. You feel worthless. Tides, bombard beaches of sleep trampling its soles across places your fingertips are too apprehensive to trace. You are nothing, like the droplets reaching their delta absent of any

They sent text after text telling me how terrible I was, how they hated me, how I was worthless and it had honestly felt like I had lost everything. Most of my friends had left, my drive to create was stifled by manic depression, my athleticism was snatched by a lung condition that seemingly came out of nowhere; almost everything that made me happy was gone. I had never felt so hopeless. But, earlier that day my father was admitted into the hospital. He had a kidney transplant earlier that year and had been going in and out of the hospital due to an elusive infection that he had for months. My mother and three older siblings were never really there for him, so growing up I was the main one who took care of him. As a result, it was my job to gather his things and bring them to the