There’s electricity in my veins. A few hours from now I’ll be on a bus to New York. I’ve been invited to read. A trick to believe writing is more than heartache and a hunched back. I’m meeting my destiny. No matter how meagre that might be, it’s all I ever wanted.
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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