Sitting on a curb in my work clothes I smoke a cig. Cold from the ride home but small pleasures are what I live for. This’ll be the sweetest moment today. I have vices, and my writing, though without a little company they’re pale. Speaking of which, the nearly full moon laughs above.
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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