Sweat dribbles down my back, collects in the band of my underwear, soaks through my pants; it itches. The radio dj says the heat might break records. I can’t breathe. I plug one nostril and snort over the sink for relief. I don’t wash the discharge down the drain. I’m living the dream.
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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