We lie in bed. Light coming in the window makes a pattern of squares and short lines on the wall. I think about getting up to find my phone. To take a photo. But some things are better forgotten. I trace the length of her with my finger. She shivers even though it’s hot.
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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