Across from the subway platform she leads me through a graffiti covered door. Up a winding staircase. Metal floor. It smells of Mexican cooking. South American music booms, a chorus of birds chirp down the hall. In a fourth floor apartment I drop my bag on the ground. I take her in my arms. It’s good to be back.
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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