I wake in the early hours with a hammer in my skull. I blame the accidental sip of beer I gagged on last night. And sitting on the edge of the bed shaking pills into my palm I recall when every day was a hangover. I wore them like medals of valour. Now I see what they really were, the opposite.
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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