Half a block away he yells you want a new bike…I’ll get ya a new bike. I shake my head while laughing. I tell him that I like mine just fine. It looks like a piece of shit so it'll never be stolen. If anyone fucks with your bike…in Ville-Émard or where ever the fuck you live…I’ll find out. He drags a single finger across his throat like a knife. It's nice to have friends.
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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