Winter at the windows I stare in the mirror. The gods haven’t seen fit to strike me down; yet. All that exists is now. Stumble along the path I’ve been following since I don’t remember. I could wonder where I’ll finish, but every ending is the same. I’ll worry later. For now I’ll have a cigarette.
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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