I undress in the kitchen. Long underwear peels from my skin. I sigh. I scratch at my calves. Dry skin flakes off, blood under my nails. I look out the windows at stars in the sky. It’s early for night and the apartment is cold. I can raise the heat, but without someone here I’ll never be warm.
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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