Regretfully I slide to the end of the bed. I’m getting sick. I was up far too late. I’m neglecting my health. But I can’t miss a day of writing. No! It’s bigger than me. If I plan on going to work I can do the thing I love. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand.
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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