Dressed like a filthy Batman he sleeps curled up on a cement block. Head resting on his arm, knees pulled up to his chest, his feet hang off the edge. A peaceful look on his badly sunburned face. He’s a baby boy, a perfect little angel. Thick smoke darkens the sun.
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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