I got something for you and your big mouth. I know the routine. He’ll produce a ball peen hammer from his bag, threaten to crush my skull, big joke. But out comes a tomahawk steak which he wields like medieval weapon. I dodge his attack while puffing a joint; another day at the office.
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