The day is quiet. Tranquil. No sounds of argument or joy coming from the corridor. No screams and shouts of self disgust gurgling up through the pipes from the maniac below. The street under our window still. Rarities of high value. So I sit without making a sound. I let the sun set without turning on the lights.
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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