I sit on the steel stairs and smoke. A security guard stands on the corner. I watch young people on their way to whatever school is close by. Same thing all over. It doesn’t matter if I’m in Baltimore or Queens or even MontrĂ©al, we’ve given up our free will, while swearing we haven’t.
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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