I don’t rush from bed, no chance. Instead I lie there unmoving, enjoying the cool morning air. As summer comes to an end I listen to the city through open windows. No movement, it sleeps. I should be doing the same but I have writing to do, and the urge to type is greater than slumber. I stand.
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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