A woman in filthy sweatpants begs for change as cars wait at the light. Her hair looks like straw and her teeth have gaps when she smiles, hard to do in her situation. Most of us whine in the face of the smallest obstacles. She asks for alms in the midday sun, always saying please.
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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