I wake to another day. I can do this. They’re not bad. Returning from New York I was scared of being alone, of having no one to talk to. I became accustomed to following her around like a dog. Sure I miss her, but I’ve been good. I’m enjoying what I was afraid of. Doing nothing if it’s not for 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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