I sit with my back to the rest of the patrons. A waitress brings my coffee. She wrings her hands confirming I take it black. I slowly say of course to calm her. Snow falls outside the thin glass window. I’m alone though it’s romantic. The server returns with a sandwich. I eat with the grace of a pig.
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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