I wake early though I don’t have to. I’d like to sleep until the sun is high, but that’s impossible. It’s a disgrace I’m unable to suffer. Because I’ve conditioned myself to keep time like a clock, and in my chest move gears. I stretch toward the sky before it comes to get me; a ritual.
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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