Turning my key in the lock I sigh. Long week pushing ink and doing as I’m told. When I walk in the door I’m ready to shut the blinds and pull the blankets over my head. But that’s the easy way out. Instead I shower and dress and put on cologne for no reason, I smoke a cigarette. The end is here. I have the time to write. I exhale.
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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