Ranchera music plays loudly. The subway shakes the tracks overhead. A woman scolds her son in Spanish, another pushes a cart loaded with sliced mangoes. People move like a breeze while I stand stone still. I bite into a chicken empanada; steam escapes. An empty apartment waits for my return.
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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