I rush to leave on time. Barely a moment to lie with her before I’m out the door. It’s the only regret I have about her staying during the week. Her sleepy brown eyes. Her warm body under the duvet. It’s hard not to text the boss and tell him I have better things to do. But I need the money.
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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