It’s pouring so I walk to the corner, buy tickets. I smoke a cig on a stoop of a business closed. The bus never comes and the rain is now a mist. At home I grab my bike and quickly regret it. My pants are heavy when I get to work. I have no other clothes. I laugh because there’s nothing left 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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