I rush through the door shivering, it’s warmer in here; barely. The sun sets so god damned early, this is the season of long nights and I have to be tough in the face of loneliness, the cold, and the bitter, never-ending dark. I shower. I smile. I drink cheap coffee and write.
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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