Sitting at my desk I’m content in my bravery. I used to be meek in the face of danger, but the years have changed me, turned my skin to leather. I’m proud of who I’ve become, even if one of these days it’s going to get me into trouble, stop my chest from moving up and down. I type with a smile.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment