A small street lined with cottages even smaller. Sand dusts the faded concrete in front of the house same as it did back then. I take a photo embedded with memories. The times weren’t what they call high, but I smile. An easy walk to the beach, I’d stare across the lake and know it wasn’t forever, I wasn’t trapped, I could see the future.
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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