On the way home I take photos. If I had another joint I wouldn’t return at all. I’d find a nice place to sit, watch people dolled up for the weekend. It’s what they all long for, and have to make the most of it, or live their lives in regret. I walk back to my apartment. I remove my clothes in silence.
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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