When did it start, I wonder.
When did the black form in my stomach, in my soul?
Was I born with hatred in my bones?

Why am I the one unable to sheathe the darkness? They all grip the cool metal, but the knife’s edge was sharper for me.

I slip and fall and cut myself on the pleasurable blade of self-disgust over and over, unable to catch myself I grasp blindly into the darkness, reaching for the familiar shapes I’ve always known.
But they all are finding their own balance, ignorant of how I lost mine.


I hate yellow.