I crawl into bed. I lie motionless. I tell myself she’s right. She does make me happy. And on days when I feel like everything I’ve done has been a mistake, I have to remember her eyes, her smile, her hand on my cheek. Not every step I take is false.
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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