I squandered my life. Spent it listlessly. No drive or ambition until it was too late. I never thought I was capable of doing anything except failure. The words put there by his wife so many years ago that it’s impossible to shake them now. A scar I see every time I shut my eyes. Rough and jagged.
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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