On the loading dock I lather my hands. A car idles across the street. A woman in a tight purple dress; good stride. The driver twists his neck to get a better view. He yells obscenities. She waves him off like something she stepped in. He guns the engine, then circles the block.
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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