At the kitchen table I work while chicken cooks. I drink cold brew though I’ve had too much. I write more than I need to. I eat more rice than is recommended, and after a cigarette I feel sick. I pass out on the couch. Let’s hear it for bourgeois society.
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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