I stop in the café. Find a bench in the park. I smoke a cig, the tail end of a joint. I stare at the fountain talking to myself. A woman and I make accidental eye contact, we smile. Her shorts so short I see most of her ass as she walks away. I remove a book from bag, get lost in the words. 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.
Comments
Post a Comment