I gather my clothes from the floor. Scurrying down the stairs my shadow is hunched like Nosferatu on the wall. I stop to admire a houseplant. A single leaf holds a drop of water collected overnight. I have nothing to do with it, though I feel proud. Not everything I touch rots on the vine.
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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