I whisper, I’m leaving now…I’ll go home…I’ll feed the cat and play with him…get a little writing done…then I’ll be back…I’ll stay the night…we’ll get dinner or lunch or something. And through the fog of sleep she smiles. I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips. I run out the door.
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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