At home I’m exhausted. I take a shower and put on clothes. Another cig then it’s back upstairs, in front of the computer. I’ll finish my day the same as I start it. Hunched over in this chair, the smell of marijuana heavy, music playing, typing all the things I’ll never say
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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