I make it to the post office before the rain, there’s a line; it moves quickly. I show a barcode and the young man working asks for a piece of ID. I flash my passport, he stops, cocks his head and says oh…hello. I laugh. At the door I see the storm I was trying to avoid. Of course.
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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