I sit down when the bus pulls up to the metro. Someone leaves behind headphones and another’s hand grabs them. I rest my head against the dirty window. The glass is cold, it soothes. Here comes the day and I’m not ready to meet it. I ring the bell at my stop. My legs are heavy but I run.
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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