It’s barely ten a.m. and I’m already restless. I don’t know what to do with myself. I pace around the living room for a bit. I see the allure of pulling out my hair in tufts as a way to stabilize the madness. I tell myself it’s too cold to leave the apartment. And there’s nothing out there anyways. Still life.
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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