At a small bar I sit beside an attractive woman, but I’m more interested in what she’s saying. She leans in close; her voice is soft and measured. I’m lost in her eyes when ours lock. Her boyfriend’s sitting right beside her, though to us, when she rests her hand on my arm, he’s nothing but a ghost.
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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