This isn't the kind of place where you go investigating loud noises in the middle of the night. All manner of awful things have transpired since we moved in. Suicides and hostage situations. Tenants hauled off in handcuffs and their doors padlocked shut by the police. After a while you don’t even flinch. It’s impressively sad how much we’re able ignore.
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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