Out front of work I get off my bike. Two cops walking the block eye me up. I’m in the basement when I hear the door open, see boot clad feet at the top of the stairs. He asks in French what I’m doing, why I’m here, I fit a description. I laugh when I tell him he’s a joke. I’m whistle clean.
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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