I wake up early. Small window lets in hazy light. I check my phone for the time, not even seven, oh well. What sleep in the face of a primal urge? I piss on the side of the bowl to stifle the splash. In the tiny bedroom I sit on a bunk. I open my laptop. The day is still.
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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