I shower and dress. I smoke a cigarette. I do it quickly, because I’m starting to unravel. Poisonous thoughts often get the best of me. And the way to rid myself of them is open my laptop and type. It’s the only path to peace I know. I cough, and laugh at my delusions.
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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