In an alley I drink an espresso, I smoke a cigarette, I watch a group people in country western gear. A literal brute with the arms of his plaid shirt ripped off, muscles showing. These meatheads could go violent in a second, and anyone who looks different is bound to be stomped into the pavement. I move into the shadows.
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