We wander along Rue Notre Dame. No purpose. Neither of us have any idea of where we’re going. Or even care as long as we’re not back in the apartment. Breathing the same stuffy air as we have all winter. Outside the sun treats us like a mother does children. Deserving or not I accept its love.
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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