The day is nothing but sweat and trouble breathing because the air is thick, it doesn’t move, it’s full of dust; my lungs burn. So when the end finally arrives I’m ecstatic, if not half dead with exhaustion. I rush out the door, there’s a breeze. I taste my freedom on it.
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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