In a deli I order a sandwich with three types of spicy chicken to eat on the bus. I pour a large coffee. Outside I smoke a cig and one of the joints that have to be gone by the time we pull out of Albany. I think of disappearing in the crowd. This could be my home. A cloud of smoke and I’m gone.
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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