The gallery itself is near empty. A couple young women over by the far wall that's it. They whisper in French. I watch the brunette push her long straight hair from her face. Not a single painting stared at yet and I could leave content to know my eyes are blessed already. It’s been so long since we’ve moved among strangers. They’re the ones I miss the most.
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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