We find a picnic table in the park. We eat our pizza greedily. A bum who says he’s from New York and can't get home comes over. I tell him we don’t have any change. He says he likes her blouse before walking away. It starts to rain. People run while we move without cause.
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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