On a small staircase surrounded by graffiti I eat a pain au chocolat, sip coffee. A man parks his car. In French he says he’s here to paint over all the bright colors, start fresh. Ok, ok je reste un instant…une cigarette…alors je pars. He opens a pack of his own. Summer heat hangs in the air.
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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