those kinds of insults
would be
meaningless,
thrown toward me.
I have already accepted it.
It’s supposed to hurt—
I know.
Yet I don’t.
I don’t feel anything at all.
This is just me—
not being me.
I should be hating myself for…
for—
I don’t know.
This feeling of numbness,
of being hollow—
there’s a certain coldness to it.
It’s both addicting
and wrong.
Is this how it’s supposed to be—
when one unbecomes?
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