When I walk through the door I stomp because my boots were made to do so. The young barista laughs. You come in…and with so much noise. I tell him with a casual air it’s important to make a grand entrance while regretting I didn’t twirl.
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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