I think of afternoons on my sister’s porch. No sounds beside the wind and horses whinnying in the pasture, crows in the trees. A tranquil place to return to as a siren wails below my apartment window on its way to a tragedy. Deep breath, there, I’m back again.
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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