I rush along rue Notre-Dame, it’s still, the only people out are homeless, joggers and employees heading to open the cafés and bistros. In the park dog owners breath can be seen from a distance, their beasts run in fallen leaves orange and red as I shiver. Hands in my pockets I stop for a coffee. It helps.
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