At the dep I buy a coffee. On the stoop of an abandoned business I light a cigarette. I watch the people of Saint-Henri come and go like I have for a decade. Things that change are out of my control. I couldn’t stop her from leaving. It’s my choice what I lament.
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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