The evening is nice. I go for a walk. Saint-Henri is alive and I want to be a part of it. So I sit on a low concrete ledge out front the priest’s house. I light a cig. People pass like they don’t see me, but I see them. Am I fading away, nothing but a cloud of smoke? I smile.
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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