In the park I find a bench. I smoke a cigarette thinking of loneliness, the bed I made. It’s not bad. I work. But as couples pass I crave other comforts. I miss waking beside a woman, a soft voice recounting last night’s dream. Soon it’ll be cold and my apartment is empty.
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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