Feeling weak I stumble into a rack of clothes; they fall. The latté I drank didn’t fill me. Outside I smoke in the sun avoiding the eyes of a woman beggar. I slip on headphones, they connect with my phone. I sing, I dance. I wish you were here to see me be the fool.
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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