Waiting for my train he sits down close, then inches closer. Hand nearly on my shoulder he humble brags into his phone, something wrong with his breathing he whinnies. I get the vibe he’s at the station looking for men and it’s up to me to make a move. I gather my things, I fall asleep on my way out of town.
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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