My Hands are Screaming

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I don't know how I'm expected to read poems, or write them, or do anything. 

I don't know how every already forgot and I have to keep reminding them--as if, "hey, I was victimized? Remember?"

They just expect I'm okay, or I should be okay. Maybe I should stop acting so okay if it's not how I feel. 

But it's not like I can just let my whole life fall to shit just so people take notice I'm not doing fucking fantastic or good at all, quite frankly.

Everything is NOT okay. And I don't want to hear that it's going to be. 

Why can't things just be FUCKING SHITTY?

Why can't I just be FUCKING SHITTY?

I hate everyone around me.

I hate everything around me.

And I'm blamed for resorting to alcohol?

I am all, all, all alone.

I thought for a moment that the world was less mean when I'm drunk.

But then I thought again and considered maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm just less mean to myself when I'm drunk.

Maybe I like it because it gives me an excuse to be a mess.

And people take notice.

And I'm not so fucking alone.

Because even when I'm lonely I have me.

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