I leave the door unlocked. Go up to the roof. Sitting on a roll of tarpaper I stare at a cellular transmission tower attached to the roof. I light my cig and do the math. It’s directly above where we’re sleeping. There must be repercussions. This headache. In the stifling living room I write.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment