I smoke looking across an intersection I could draw with my eyes shut. I’d like to sell everything I own, move to Paris, New York or Prague. Maybe this feeling would escape me, but I doubt it, crosses are made to carry wherever you go. I miss her arms around me.
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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