When the jitters push I move. I prepare coffee and smoke while it brews. I rush up to the apartment. Got to busy the mind, or else it floats to thoughts of loneliness and death, and finding someone to help me forget them both. So I write a short story. I get what I want in the end…just kidding.
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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