The nurse makes me speak French. I give in. Mille neuf cent soixante-dix-neuf I sputter when he asks me what year I was born. Venez plus proche he says. I slide my chair toward him. In English he tells me he likes my face as he puts the needle in my arm. I’m speechless.
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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