Instead of telling her what I’m thinking I keep it to myself. The delicate way these flowers feel between my fingertips and the time they return me to is mine alone. So I guard it in my heart. There it'll stay precious. I wipe tears from my eyes when she’s not looking. In the park we find a bench in the sun.
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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