Plants grow from cracks in the sidewalk, the foundation. I’m convinced it’s the flora that smells of piss as I ask the sky how long until the place is condemned, torn down for condos? More fake millionaires, the borough already teems with them. It’s hard to get a place to sit in the park. Where will I go?
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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