In an art gallery basement we take pics of ourselves in a mirror. Outside the humidity is so heavy it’s hard to walk up the base of Mont Royal. At a dollar store she tries on sunglasses. I take her to Antep Kabob, we eat chicken sandwiches. The rain they called for never came.
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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