I’m jolted from sleep by my wailing alarm. The dark room hears me curse. I resent rising so early to fit in what I love. But every day I wake before the sun, squeezing into a schedule I didn’t chose. I’ve failed, though I won’t give up. The apartment is still. I hear the keyboard call.
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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