The wind on the street is cold so I imagine my sister’s farm in the summer. No apartment complexes or cigarette butts in the gutter, just long fields and a barn cat meowing for its supper. Standing here I wonder what I’m doing. The bus arrives, and I can’t find my pass.
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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