There was nothing wrong. I only dreamt to suffer in different ways. Different locations. But now sitting here with the cold seeping in through my thin cotton t-shirt. Muscles cramping. I wonder if I was wrong to run. To turn my back on what I came from. To live a life in exile. It's better not to think about.
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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