Standing stock stil in the living room I listen. The years have trained me to place sounds and scents. I wait for scuffling and scratching on the floor. I strain to hear whispers in the corridor. I sniff the air for tobacco. There’s nothing. I let out the breathe I was holding. Today I start with ease.
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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