My lineage is long. I’m every labourer who ever toiled. All I’m missing is a thermos of coffee, my lunchbox packed with last night’s dinner. Dad always had a feast. His wife said he needed a big meal working in the factory. He came home bragging he didn’t do a thing. My body aches when I walk in the door.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment