Bad Love

Don’t love me.
Because loving me is pain. No, torture.
Like that awful gut-wrenching feeling you get when you receive bad news
that makes you curl up in bed for three days without eating and
afterwards you emerge hobbled in a stale t-shirt plastered to your chest
from tears and your hair matted to your scalp from restless thoughts.
This is what it is like to love me—to hate yourself.

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