In the middle of the street I fart, a loud squealer. I light a cigarette, take a drag. Another long, hard day. The shirts never stop and they are my master. Laughing I become aware of where I am, and sitting in their window looking good is the neighbour downstairs. No need to wonder if they heard, their face says it all.
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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