I take a hot shower, towel off, get dressed in last night’s clothes. Same motions as yesterday, tomorrow as well. I remove a cigarette from the pack on the table, hold it gently. Outside the city is as quiet as my sister’s farm. I sit on the curb, relax, not another chance until tonight. I exhale. I go inside and write.
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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