I wouldn’t mind if the sky stayed yellow forever. It’s romantic, like living in an old photo. Pictures of people long gone. I stare up at the hazy heavens, exhale a cloud of smoke. Into the air with the rest of it. I’ll follow along one day. We all go home eventually.
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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