I stand where aren’t any windows, no apartments, no sleeping artist, itinerant, or alcoholic punk shitting their life down the toilet to bother. The sun rises over the storage units hitting me in the face. A car drives by slowly. I light a cigarette. Life is good.
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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