I’m scared. Normally it’s read my piece and hide in the crowd. But this is involved, I’m the host. In the city I live. An opportunity to fail with people I know in the crowd. That’s what I like about New York, a couple days later I’m back on the bus, see ya later…maybe never. Panic grips my spine.
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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