The goal was become unlovable. So I got fat and mean. Pushed and pushed. I didn’t think things would get better, that I’d build a life free from the shackles my father wore; comfortable job, a family. I turned to art. I’m sorry if you used to know me. I was lost.
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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