Not the best

I hang on to the things that are worst. The criticisms, the negative comments the bad reviews. All the rest slides off me like water and only the gritty stuff is rescued like stones in a sieve. I delete the text, burn the letter, practice forgetting. Anything that will help me unwind this bitter ball of hate that I am gestating. Why is it that this self hate does not turn to cancer. It seems unfair that I go on when others fall. My grandmother who always told me that at second best I was not good enough, is still alive into her 90s. She is limping along on hate and anger I suspect. I lie in the bath and close my eyes and feel the same energetic throbbing behind my lids. I am held up by all the terrible things that have ever been aimed at me. I collect them like severed limbs kept in jars. I am nothing but a medical curiosity. Her words to me, his words to her, his words to me, my words to him, all of this niggling criticism fueling a life that has stomped off the rails and is rampaging out in a more self destructive direction.