I see tracers as I place shirts on the boards, so I double check them all. I laugh as the world melts around me, I lean into it, people pay good money for this kind of kick. Twisted is better than straight. But is it a migraine, a flashback or a stroke? I’m so tired I don’t care.
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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