Music booms from a new bar. The restaurant next door has a full patio. Across the street an empty théâtre boasts an à louer sign. This borough has changed since I moved here, so has my life. I look back smiling to when these streets were empty, and something sweet was turning sour. Flowers die; others bloom.
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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