From over the top of my screen I can see the bag of bluish mushrooms. It’s like they’re peeking at me. After my attention. Calling through the ether. Eat me. Nibble me. Mash me with your teeth. Which sounds divine. But for now I resist their song. It’s barely five a.m.
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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