Up the foot of the mountain I cut through the edge of Westmount. Richest borough in town. Big old homes with rooms inside the size of my apartment stare at me with lifeless windows like eyes. I imagine the people behind them. I tell myself they’re cold and numb. I might be poor. But at least I’m full of soul.
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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