The hour is late and my legs are getting weak; I’ve been walking all day. I go into the subway to get warm and consider taking the train to anywhere, but I’m scared I’ll fall asleep if I stop moving. I stumble outside, I blink my eyes, I relish the cold in my face.
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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