Tired

I hate. I burned, and I raged, and I cried, and I sobbed. I wrecked myself. But still, I hate. Weakness is anathema. Pity is simultaneously sought and reviled. Soft cotton sheets turn scratchy under the wet weight of tears, and I beat my pillow back into shape. I am too tired for sleep. I am too tired for anything. I am tired of school, and of my friends. Are you okay? I am tired of questions, and of hiding behind half-truths. Yeah, just tired. I am tired of hating myself.