Yesterday’s puddles are patches of ice this morning. Wind finds it way down my collar, tightens the skin across my chest. I hate it but crave it. Geese pick at the grass and I holler for them to start flying south. They look at me the same way she did in the end, like everything I ever did was wrong.
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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