I write then nap. I wake restless. There’s a feeling like all of winter’s melancholy found a home in my chest. I stare out the window watching it rain. I imagine warm days and clear skies. Blades of grass tickling my skin. Headphones in my ears. How much longer must I suffer?
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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