Standing out front the bookstore she says it’s sad I have more friend in New York than I do here. It is. What’ve I done to myself? Pushed them all away. I find solace in philosophy. I watch the waves from the shore. We smoke cigarettes, an old man begs for change, we give him what we have.
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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