Rushed by the sound of high heels behind us we walk to the stone walled Univers Culturel de Saint-Sulpice at the top of Rue du Fort. We kiss in the shade on the corner. She looks good walking into the sun. Gravity pulls me as I head back down the mountain. Psilocybin shivers give way to laughter. Before I know it they turn to tears. I cross the street to get out from under a cloud.
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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