I sit on the edge of the park. A man apart as it's always been. I smoke a joint in the shade watching people much younger than me enjoy themselves like I don’t remember doing myself. I flick away the roach. I bury my head in a book.
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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