First things first I scurry down the ladder. My clothes are a black pile on the floor in the morning darkness. I pick them up without breaking my stride. I’m determined. The keyboard calls. It screams my name. I run the shower hot in hopes of drowning out the voice. It offers no help. This is mania.
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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