I walk rue Notre-Dame. Pass through hordes of people loitering for brunch. At the dollar store I buy sparkling water, shoplift peanut butter cups. On the way back I take my time. Walk as slow as I’m able. No one is waiting. I stop in a café. I forget my sunglasses when I leave.
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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