I don’t bother with clothing as I make my way to the coffee pot. I hide in the warmth of the tiny bathroom as it brews. I sit hunched on the edge of the tub practicing French. When I fail I get angry with myself for being so miserably stupid.
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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