My coworkers glisten in the smoky air. My jeans heavy with sweat I feel my body cooking, blood in my veins like sludge. How many summers do I have left behind the machine before I’m spent, beaten, what do I do then? I wipe the perspiration from my brow.
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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