Just A Mistake

I was looking through my phone yesterday, deleting whatever rubbish was inside, when I found this old poem, saved as a draft in my messages:

What did I do wrong again?
To make you so angry once again?
To slam the door,
and leave pain in your wake?

"Did I make a mistake?" I whisper,
looking down at my hands
That tremble wildly
no matter how I try to control them.

Maybe, I did make a mistake.
By speaking.
By breathing.
By... Existing.

I know I must be the mistake.
I must be.
Or you'd never get so angry at me all the time.
I'm just an error to be corrected.

I don't need to be pitied or loved, do I?
Nobody pities a mistake.
Nobody loves a mistake.
Mistakes are just made to be corrected.

As much as a mistake wants to,
longs to be loved,
Nobody will love one.
Mistakes are scum, are they not?

And so I am scum.

Maybe I can be corrected.
Should I be erased?
Should I leave?
Mistakes aren't wanted by anyone, after all.

Maybe... Maybe I can erase myself.

After all, my life just adds up to
One.
Big.
Mistake.

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