Standing on the street at this hour is always a little hair raising. This morning a lack of sleep turns every sound into an attacker. With head on a swivel eyes dart around. They focus on shadows behind a graffiti covered truck. It’s only the swirling of snow. But that’s no reason to relax.
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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