Falling into a seat for disabled people I ignore two teenagers talking about their hair. Across from me a weary mother passes her phone to a sick daughter. I shut my eyes against it. Late afternoon sun dances like fire across the lids. The bus hits a pothole. Soon I’ll be home
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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