I set up a two colour job. Lots of shirts. Hours of work. No one will bother me this way. I can think. I can escape. Behind my eyes I’m back home, in front of my laptop, the sound of the keys a comfort. I push ink with a smile. Freedom is my mind.
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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