At my desk I work on a novel. Thousands of words about love, about nothing at all. Just another loser lost on literary fiction. I’m looking to capture a moment in time, leave a piece of me behind. I’ll never father children. The world is better off if I stick to what I know.
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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