In a gravel voice the radio DJ reminds me of the heat. It’s a scorcher out there he says from an air conditioned studio. But I don’t need to be told. Sweat dampens my clothes. I feel faint. My thoughts turn to murder as Hot in the City fills the shop.
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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