Aggressively a bum flicks his cigarette butt into the street before dirty looking me from a phone booth. I get it. In his eyes I have and he doesn’t. It’s the way we’re all mixed up. There’s always someone to admire. But there’s always someone to loathe. I play my role either way.
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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