Downstairs neighbour has his lights on. I see him but I’m not keen on reciprocation. Last thing I need is him thinking I’m a sick pervert, a predawn peeper. He’s apt to come out, start trouble. I would. So I slink into the shadows. I allow them to eat me.
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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