i hate people.
i hate you and myself and them, just as i hate everyone else. equally, no more, no less.
i know hate is a strong word, but hate i do.
in the end, we're all so inconsequential,
a handful of beings senselessly coping with our lives,
tiny in this universe.
when i am alone, no one is as special as i thought they were.
when i am alone, no one cares. not enough, at least.
when i am alone, i lack the courage to speak aloud.
when i am alone, nothing can quite fill the places where i loved you,
perhaps not even you.
and i hate that.
my tears are inconsequential to you because i dare not show them
and i'm trying so hard to convince myself that you're not more significant than that,
because the difference between living around people and living with them
is that i only remember how to do the first one.
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