I should’ve been more like her. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so low right now. But I doubt it. If I’d worked hard at having the good life. A house and a driver's license and a big piece of land I’d still feel the same way. Like the hand of death has my heart in its palm. Its voice laughing softly. Always there to remind me of what I am. Nothing.
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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