I held a grudge, gave him a hard time for not being the father I wanted, but I was never a very good son. I should’ve tried harder, burrowed my way into his life. Instead I let his wife push me away. Now I’m in a city where I don’t know a soul and it’s too late to go back. I run for the bus, it pulls off without me.
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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