In the dep across from the metro I pour a coffee. C’est tout the clerk asks; I point at some cookies on the counter. Un biscuit…le chocolat. With tongs he places one in a white paper sleeve. I give him four dollars and get one twenty-five in return. I drop the bag in the trash, another falls on the floor. The universe is equal.
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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