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Here is a poem I wrote titled “Insecurities.”
It is not often I respond to the question
“How do you feel about yourself?”
But, when I do, I usually just say “a lot.”
This is mostly because when asked the question
“Do you like yourself?” my response is usually the upward
contortion of my arms into the air, my shoulders following suit,
and a facial expression that resembles the smell of throw-up.
So, in other words, not really.
Being insecure isn’t something most people admit to right away.
It’s sort of like expecting a criminal to admit to killing someone,
except my crime is pretending like my problems are more important
than anyone else’s, and my punishment is just sort of living with it.
The word insecure often reminds me of the phrase morbid curiosity,
because whenever I feel insecure, I wonder about how much everyone secretly hates me.
I guess what I am trying to say is don’t feel alone.
Life is an ocean of fresh faces and people who probably won’t care much about you,
but part of living in the ocean is finding treasure at the bottom of the sea,
and knowing that hitting rock bottom is where those who truly care about will come to
pick you up.
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