I hate myself

I hate the way I watch the clock
like it’s a stranger I’m avoiding.
Minutes pile up like unopened mails,
each one addressed to a version of me
who was supposed to try harder.

I carry plans like unfinished sentences,
beautiful beginnings
with no courage to find a period.
Every dream I had is still waiting
in draft mode,
tapping its foot.

I tell myself “later” so often
it sounds like a promise,
but later has become a graveyard
of almosts and should-haves,
of days that meant to matter.

I hate how I know exactly what to do
and still don’t do it.
How my hands freeze
while my mind screams instructions.
How motivation feels like a guest
who never learned my address.

I hate the shame most of all
that quiet, sticky thing
that sits next to me
while I scroll, while I stall,
whispering that this is who I am.

So here I am
not fixed, not finished,
but still breathing,
still wanting,
still writing this instead of buried in work.

And maybe that counts for something.
Maybe starting again
isn’t proof that I’m broken,
but proof that some part of me
hasn’t given up yet.