I’m rested in a way that I haven’t been since I got here; borderline homeless the entire time. Not sure where I was to spend the night and public bathrooms became change rooms, the library a source of warmth and peace. My legs took me everywhere. The kindness of friends is a valuable thing.
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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