Rising from the mattress is falling into routine. I turn towards the window. The borough below me is a silhouette against the cresting sun. I reach to the sky, then the ground. I pick the heavy duvet up. I flick it out. It drops like a feather. Soon I’ll be typing. It’s all I need to smile.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment