I get out of bed. Now that I’m home I return to my routine. No more walking to the deli for coffee, or sitting in front the Romanian church smoking while she sleeps, and early risers hurry to the subway. No more sitting in that kitchen typing as a cat stares on. Time to work so I can do it again.
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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