The old bum snores under the stairs, turns over on her cardboard bed as the door slams. She’s seen better days and this a society where no one cares. Grandmothers rot on the streets. Others eat fillet mignon. I hold my breath against the stench of piss. In my apartment I pour the coffee, I roll the joint, I get to work, I forget.
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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