Church bells toll as I watch two men search their pockets, the ground. From the desperation and location I assume they’ve lost drugs. The half gone six-pack between them will have to do. This park is full of people with little to lose so I hold my bag. The sun feels good on my face.
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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