The thing is he doesn't have much to lose. A bed in a filthy rooming house. A life where he steals to get high and drunk enough to face each day. When he struts out the door I see a little of my best friend in the way that he walks. I wonder how long until I hear he's dead too.
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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