I was a fool. I see it now, clear as day, as if everything I ever believed was a lie wrapped in my own stupidity. I used to think that kindness meant something, that sincerity would open doors, that the world could see me for what I was. But the world doesn’t see anyone—it chews you up and spits you out the moment you show any softness. I was naive, but I’ve learned. I’ve learned the truth about this godforsaken place, and I’ve learned the truth about myself.
I was never meant for this world. I don’t fit. I don’t belong. I spent years trying to force myself into a mold that wasn’t made for me, pretending I could be like the others. But they don’t want me. They never did. They laugh, they love, they move through life with ease, while I stand on the outside, watching it all slip through my fingers. I hate them. I hate the way they move, the way they talk, the way they exist in their little bubbles of comfort, never once questioning how empty it all is.
And what have I gotten? What have I earned for all the times I held back my anger, all the times I bit my tongue and smiled when I should’ve screamed? Nothing. They look past me, and I’m nothing but air. An inconvenience, a shadow that doesn’t deserve the light. It’s like I’m invisible, but not in the way that’s peaceful. No, I’m invisible in the way that makes me feel like I’m rotting from the inside out.
I thought I could be different. I thought maybe if I was kind enough, if I gave enough of myself, they’d finally see me. They’d notice that I was there, that I had something to offer. But all I got was rejection. Silence. And a deep, gnawing resentment that I could never shake off.
I’m not weak anymore. The days of hoping for pity are over. I’m done being the nice guy. I’ve learned to hate them. I hate their laughter, I hate their ease, I hate the way they take everything for granted. The way they think they deserve the world, and the world just hands it to them. While I stand here, in the dark, fighting for scraps. It’s not fair. It never was.
And I’m done pretending it’s okay. It’s not okay. I’ve spent too long swallowing my bitterness, my rage, my disgust for all of them. I used to think it was loneliness. But no. It’s something far worse than that—it’s the realization that I’ll never be what they want, and I’ll never be accepted. I’ll never belong. And I hate them for it. I hate the way they go on living their pointless little lives, as if nothing matters, as if I don’t exist.
I thought I could be a part of their world. But now I see the truth—I wasn’t meant for it. And I’ll never be what they need me to be. I was born for this, for the endless struggle, for the solitude, for the rage that simmers beneath the surface. I’ve embraced it. This is who I am now. I will no longer beg for scraps, and I will no longer waste my time hoping for something that will never come. I will make them see me—not as I was, but as what I’ve become. And when they look at me, I’ll make them wish they’d never turned their backs.
They will remember me.
I was never meant for this world. I don’t fit. I don’t belong. I spent years trying to force myself into a mold that wasn’t made for me, pretending I could be like the others. But they don’t want me. They never did. They laugh, they love, they move through life with ease, while I stand on the outside, watching it all slip through my fingers. I hate them. I hate the way they move, the way they talk, the way they exist in their little bubbles of comfort, never once questioning how empty it all is.
And what have I gotten? What have I earned for all the times I held back my anger, all the times I bit my tongue and smiled when I should’ve screamed? Nothing. They look past me, and I’m nothing but air. An inconvenience, a shadow that doesn’t deserve the light. It’s like I’m invisible, but not in the way that’s peaceful. No, I’m invisible in the way that makes me feel like I’m rotting from the inside out.
I thought I could be different. I thought maybe if I was kind enough, if I gave enough of myself, they’d finally see me. They’d notice that I was there, that I had something to offer. But all I got was rejection. Silence. And a deep, gnawing resentment that I could never shake off.
I’m not weak anymore. The days of hoping for pity are over. I’m done being the nice guy. I’ve learned to hate them. I hate their laughter, I hate their ease, I hate the way they take everything for granted. The way they think they deserve the world, and the world just hands it to them. While I stand here, in the dark, fighting for scraps. It’s not fair. It never was.
And I’m done pretending it’s okay. It’s not okay. I’ve spent too long swallowing my bitterness, my rage, my disgust for all of them. I used to think it was loneliness. But no. It’s something far worse than that—it’s the realization that I’ll never be what they want, and I’ll never be accepted. I’ll never belong. And I hate them for it. I hate the way they go on living their pointless little lives, as if nothing matters, as if I don’t exist.
I thought I could be a part of their world. But now I see the truth—I wasn’t meant for it. And I’ll never be what they need me to be. I was born for this, for the endless struggle, for the solitude, for the rage that simmers beneath the surface. I’ve embraced it. This is who I am now. I will no longer beg for scraps, and I will no longer waste my time hoping for something that will never come. I will make them see me—not as I was, but as what I’ve become. And when they look at me, I’ll make them wish they’d never turned their backs.
They will remember me.
