An abandoned stretch along rue Saint-Joseph where I’m always the only one. A car slows down and stops in the middle of the road. I slow my pace. I tell myself that this is it. The instant. And in my pocket I make a fist. The largest key I own protruding like a weapon.
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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