I stand at the window. The morning is clear and I see the ruins of Canada Malting, I see distant church spires in Ville-Émard. I look upon dilapidated, vine-covered balconies of nearby apartments and smile. I never thought I’d last this long, or have so much to be thankful for.
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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