I watch him struggle through the rooming house door with his bike. He relights a cigarette. When he yells at me to get the boss he’s not halfway across the street. I tell him it isn’t my job. He whines like a little boy even though he looks like a man.
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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