The desire to smoke a cigarette is undeniable. I dress in dirty jeans and a wrinkled white t-shirt. I lock the door. The corridor is damp with humidity, but at least it no longer smells of beer. Scent is a powerful reminder. And I hate what I was yesterday.
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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