She’s doing the dishes when I walk through the door. Bright red sweater. Tight plaid pants. I grab her ass when I get close enough. Kiss her on the lips. Then tell her I love her as I take off my clothes. Because the odour of paint thinner is burning my eyes.
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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