I hate my inner *****
who flares recurringly, consistently,
cruelly to the surface upon those
who least deserve it.
I hate my inner narcissist
who rears herself
so cleanly
on the outer sleeve of
Me
bashing down while lifting me up
on the shoulders of
comparison
I hate my learned complexes
bred not of my parents
but of a woman who saw a light
and sought only to
consume it.
I hate how amid the dread and sin
every rippled part of these indentions below my skin
I must completely forgive them.
what is me, what is not?
11.20.20