Spilled holiday candy on the sidewalk and I hear last night’s grief, the laughter of friends. I’m reminded of when I could hold my alcohol, went out every weekend, had a bar I called my own. Now I spend my time with books and people in other cities connected by words on a screen. Is that all we are?
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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