Stepping off the bus I fill my lungs with air. The cold is like fire in them as I jog. But with the distance between me and my job shortening I feel alive. It doesn’t matter how heavy my boots are, or that I don’t want to get where I’m going, I let out a yelp of joy. I’m addicted to pain.
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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