I try to talk about the worst of myself but I can't because I just end up describing my mom.

a poem, or paranoia, or a letter to myself, or my mother, or a mirror that never makes you look pretty.

23:46 pm. 31/08/2022.

There’s a person here. I can feel it. She’s there. She’s hiding in plain sight. Why can’t anyone else feel her? I can feel her, she’s there. she’s waiting and watching, she’s watching me for every minor setback, every mistake, she’ll hit me when I’m most vulnerable, she’ll do it. I wish she would just end it, once and for all, deliver the killing blow, or I wish she would just go, leave me alone forever, never come back, I don’t want her around.

Or I don’t. Maybe I don’t want either of those things.

I don’t want her to end it, I don’t want it to be doomsday yet, I want to scream at her, I want to tell her, don’t do it, give me some time, I’ll prove to you that I am worthy, I’ll be perfection, for you, I will be. just wait, I’m trying. you’re watching, aren’t you? why aren’t you looking here, look here, look at me, look, look, this is what you wanted right? Look, please just look. she’s not looking. I hate her. I wish she would just look.

I wish she would just go, leave me alone forever. Then I could maybe celebrate my happy moments without the sadness of the dissatisfaction of a void that keeps taking, taking, taking, expecting, expecting, expecting, burning under my skin that never stops. I wish she would stop watching and judging, nothing is ever enough anyway, maybe if she left, I could just stop. I don’t think I mean that.

She only wants what’s best for me, she wants me to fulfill my full potential. She keeps expecting because she knows how much better I am than I am letting myself be, if I keep trying, maybe one day I will be what she sees in me, maybe then she’ll smile, maybe then I won’t have to feel like every move I make is worse than it could have been. She does not want what’s best for me. She is an overdeveloped bone in a ballerina’s foot, a congenital anomaly, something that brings pain to doing an activity you love.

She holds me to high standards because she hates me, she knows how flawed I am, and she hates me for it, she wants me to prove my worth every time because she truly believes one day I won’t be able to. She’s just waiting to make the kill shot. She’s not a coach watching his players play, looking for ways to help them be better, she’s an assassin, looking for one mistake, a fatal flaw, an unfixable vulnerability. I’m scared if she leaves, or lowers the gun, I’ll lose my incentive to be better, I’ll fall out.

Maybe the reason I am good is that I know it’s the only way I have to keep her from getting vicious, maybe the reason I am remarkable at all is that I know if I’m not, she will make sure I’m not anything. maybe it’s because I know, that if I am not useful anymore, she’ll get rid of me. She’s the only person who I deserve to be loved by, she’s the only person I know how to be loved by.

I know how to be loved by her, I know what earns it, I know how to earn it, I am like a dog, I know a certain action gets me affection if I do it a 100 times, will you still love me extra special when I do it? She’s stopped loving me extra special when I do it. She just expects me to be better every time.

I think she thinks too much of my potential. I think she hates me.

I think she’ll be the driving force behind everything remarkable I achieve in life. I think she’s broken me so completely that I make people who love me stop trying to earn it. I think she’s so obsessed with making me remarkable, that she’s forgotten to teach me to be loved. I think it’s because no one ever taught her to love. I think she never tried to learn. I think she doesn’t care if I’m loved to not. I think I hate her. I think I couldn’t if I tried to.

My arm is shaking.