On a stoop I watch people come and go. The shining sun. The rush of caffeine and tobacco. A few minutes to oneself. Nothing finer in this life. If I could press pause I would. Bums out front the church start howling like apes, I smile. Summer is a wonderful thing. I return my cup to the café.
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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