I lie in bed warm from sleep. I should get up to start the ritual that puts me in front of the computer. But I hesitate. It’s dark out. And on the other side of this duvet the heat is low. There’s ice on the windows. I make my life a challenge. Can I survive my self-made squalor? I kick the blankets off.
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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