I smoke a cig leaning against the fence. Some labourers down the block eye me with disdain. One last drag and I flick my butt at an SUV with an eagle decal across the front. I light a joint. People come and go. Monday morning and I’ve got work to do.
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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