From bed the building is peaceful. Sounds of the streets rise, of course. But there’s no murmur of voices in the corridor, there’s no one at the bottom of the stairs wailing on an acoustic guitar. I don’t have to get dressed. I’m able to relax. I scratch the hair below my navel.
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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