When I get to work the streets are empty and the air is still. No cop on the corner in his car. The hookers are still in bed or down the block at the crack house their addictions sated for now. Until later. When I'll watch them pace from phone booth to corner and back. Scratching. Eyes fixed on old men who drive by slowly. I appreciate tranquility.
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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