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 Montréal, 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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