In a café I wait as a barista steams milk. The music is louder than usual, and there’s a smile on his face as he dances toward the counter. I take a cookie and a small coffee. He stamps my card more than necessary. Outside the snow slowly turns to puddles.
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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