I pass the day smoking and reading in bed. As the sun sets I give into hunger. I pour blood down the drain, mixed with tap water it brightens before swirling away. I fry ground veal and onions. I eat it with bread and cheese hunched over a table I built for two. At least there aren’t many dishes any longer.
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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