I stop my phone from buzzing. Not as light as it was a few weeks ago upon waking. Soon I’ll be having my first cig of the day in darkness. Cold wind whipping down rue Acorn, no thanks. But what is winter in Québec if not rough on body, spirit, mind? Diamonds are ground into beauty, so are we.
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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