I shiver though it’s sunny. So I hustle to the metro. I place my card in the guichet and paw at the buttons. Two rides seven dollars. Hardly affordable and the machine won’t accent my money, it spits out my coins. Bah…maudit…fuck this. I hit cancel, hop the turnstile, I always follow the signs.
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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