After writing I hurry back to bed. I read while the sun warms my face. I put down the book then follow. My body is heavy. My thoughts run. I need to slow down, take it easy, don’t let the work devour me. I laugh out loud. I’ll only give in when I have to. Exhaustion is welcome.
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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