I wake up to a cold apartment but I don’t mind. It’s good for me. It keeps me young, fresh. So instead of getting out of bed I lie there sucking in cool air. I throw off the blankets and revel in the way it tightens my skin, I feel alive, but something tickles the back of my throat, a voice whispers in my ear. I don’t know what I’m living for.
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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