I type. I feel sick while I do. But no matter how much I want to pass out I smile. If this is what I love, than it’s necessary to work through the trials of being alive. I can’t let little things like sleep deprivation get in the way of making these keys sing. I do what makes me happy. It’s my punishment.
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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