I'd like to think I believe in myself. I was a grade school honor and an achiever, a stress free high school student, a good daughter to my parents. And yet I dull myself for you. Of all the people I poured all my love to, you are the one person who does not know the first thing about my worth.

Why am I here again? Arguing with my demonic thoughts and wondering how much of me is replaceable. What about my words and my efforts? The way I made you laugh on our good days, especially on the bad ones? The way you tell your exciting stories to me? Do those people really surpass all of that?

I made a hate letter to myself just now, commemorating all the things you've done to me. And I cried because, again, not of self-pity, but because I imagined my parents reading and knowing about those. It would've broken their hearts. If this ever happens to the women in my life, I would fucking riot. I don't know why I allow myself to be excused. But I'm done minimizing myself and stooping down low just to get along with you. You make me question every fucking thing about myself. And it's getting worse everyday.

I had accepted defeat thinking that as long as you're okay, everything is excusable and should just be swept off. I can't believe I'm becoming a basic sob story. It's disgusting. I'm sorry.