I light a cigarette, let it dangle between my fingers. The weeks are long and I’m getting old. But all we can do is meet them as they come, until we fall. A reddish brown squirrel approaches. Got nothing for you little fella I say with a smile. It turns on its haunches and runs up a tree.
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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