I don’t like writing
It makes me feel exposed, open and readable
It makes me a victim of my own words
And it sucks
Because I write not only for myself
But also for the readers
And yet I don’t want to be read
And yet I am

I don’t like talking about myself
I need it
I really do
But I don’t like it for the very same reason
Because trusting yourself either to your friends or to your readers
Sucks pretty much anyway
Now you don’t know them ‒ but you made sure they know you

I don’t like monologues
When the words clutter up my cerebral activity
I find myself unable to stop them
They curl up in a big rotting flock of hair
And I have to cough them out
In order to keep breathing

I don’t like compassion
Because when I am in sorrow
I need it
And it makes me feel vulnerable
Because I want to be pet on my head
Given a sweet treat
And told that everything will be ok
Although we all know that it won’t

I don’t like being loved
Even more than loving somebody myself
Because when somebody truly needs you
In every way that is possible
And wants you to be more than just being your own
It is frustrating
And it feels scary
And unknown
And new
And
I hate it