I throw the duvet from my sweat-drenched body. The bed is damp where I slept; the pillow is cold and it repulses me. I haven’t woke like this since I was a drunk. My body would furiously rid me of the toxins I dumped down my throat the night before. And every night before that.
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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