A hooker strolls through the intersection like cars aren’t honking. Her shoulders so far back I think of sandy beaches, a roaring fire, a limbo stick; she moves like a zombie. Eyelids flutter as she lies down in front of a pizza parlour, cigarette between her lips. There, there…sleep tight little angel, I wish I could make it better.
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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