The first turn of the pedals, first bite of wind cuts through my layers, carves lines in my face. There go my looks. When I push harder nature does too. I imagine the valves of my heart exploding, dying here while the crows caw overhead. Not bad.
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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