I pour a glass of cold brew and head to my desk. Before writing I scroll the news. A notorious cat burglar is in custody. Not his first time. He’s been behind bars in England and Germany. I examine his photo. There’s a smirk on his face. Mine too.
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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