Lights on in the apartment downstairs I avert my eyes. He doesn’t seem like the type to take kindly to strangers peeping in his windows, not many are. I light my cig. The curb I normally sit on is smeared with what looks like canine diarrhea. I’m sure it’s intentional, a warning. The neighbours are conspiring against me.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment