Caught nauseatingly off-guard by the all-too-familiar but long-quiet sense of the absolute brokenness of humans.

Sometimes every piece of being human, from the kindest words to the most selfish actions, makes me sick to my stomach until I shake with sobs that won’t come out. If my cries could escape, I would find some relief. I am punished even by my inability to express this mountain of feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I don’t want to be in debt to anyone, and I don’t want anyone to feel that they owe me a damn thing. We are lucky to draw breath after breath. My wants, so many and so unimportant, disgust me.

I’ve been struggling to connect, uncomfortable sharing anything. I am filled with hopes too big for my caving ribcage, embarrassed by how far I want to reach, unsure how I’ll ever get anywhere near that far-off finish line.

I want things to be better for the people who have given me so much more than I could ever deserve. I’m filled with guilt at my inability to live up to what I should be.

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