And not many engines can handle that kind of stress. So I have to wonder when mine will start to shake. Crack. Come shooting up out of my chest in a deafening scream of torn flesh and broken bones. Streams of blood in the air and a smile on my face. Because I pushed it as hard as I could. I never gave in to thoughts of my safety.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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