I stop cutting. I see my eyes. They glow a little stronger now that there’s less hair. The razor buzzes when I switch the button. It’s a comfort, like the warm whispers of a lover. The blades are dull as they run over my scalp. I wince but don’t stop. Same as any relationship.
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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