Writing fights the loneliness, but is also the cause. A snake eating its tail. A vicious circle I thought I escaped leaving the village I grew up in. I should’ve listened to my father when he said you can’t run away, but I was full of hope.
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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