I lie on the mattress. The air conditioner is running but I still sweat. I stare up at the ceiling. The television in the other room is a comfort. I think of the days I always slept with one on. The chattering voices woke me in the morning. They were a house full of loved ones in a room I had all to myself.
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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