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I've forgotten what it's like to hustle anymore. Every little step that I take, feels too impossible to be true. I know it's awful but I am nobody now. No need to console this pain, or to smother this person who disappeared from her own sight; because a semicolon is all I'll ever be, and all I've ever been. Being misunderstood is a lifestyle, and caring less, a habit. Everything I dreamt of me becoming and everything I worked for, with my blood, sweat, tears, it's worth nothing. Or maybe it's something. A something that can't breathe. A something that won't ever be enough, becoming someone that was never enough. I am my doings, and I am ruined.
And knowing that these were my choices still make me feel good, because if it didn't land me where I wished it would, at least it was my life. At least I tried.
I'm sick of pleasing people, and that's exactly what I'm giving up. It's me, God, and I won't die consciously.
But I might die someday. I don't want to live and I can't kill myself. I'll have to lie to myself to get out of this but will I ever, then? So what is my option? Kill. Kill what? Don't know.