I go in the smoke shop. She needs things from CVS. I check my phone, respond to messages while I wait. I stand on the corner staring out into the intersection of five streets. I could sprint like a gazelle when the next bus comes. Tears cloud my eyes. An NYPD officer stares at me, she chews her gum like a horse.
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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