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It’s 1152 and I look at the hole in my phone where the app used to be.

It’s 1152 and I reflect on what I wanted and what I needed and what I got.

It’s 1153 and I regret.

It’s 1153 and it might have made me a better person if I could have just hung in and believed.

It’s 1154 and I know the emotional investment needed would have been a deal breaker.

It’s 1154 and I wish things were different.

It’s 1155 and I know I deserve to feel this way.

I used to think that problems would disappear if I just could stop hating the man I saw in the mirror.  That if I just allowed him to feel confident and good that I’d stop feeling worthless and bad.

It’s 1204 and I want to feel loved and be loved.

It’s 1204 and I could use a good fuck.

And maybe that’s the problem. Of course that’s /the/ problem, but it is one I don’t know how to solve because I don’t know where it comes from. But it’s not confidence and it’s not chemical but it /is/ me.

It’s 1206 and I am saying it’s not you, it’s me.

I don’t know what gives joy and I don’t know how to keep contentment.  I can fix the man in the mirror but he still doesn’t feel fixed. We are broken and worthless and not worth the time.

but

It’s 1207 and I keep typing.

It’s 1208 and I’m sorry that I let you down.

It’s 1208 and I’ll be okay.