I’ve run out of coffee. Damnit, now I’m forced into a café with all the petite bourgeoise fucks. Oh well, that’s city life, stooping to the level of those that look down on me. I get dressed. Two coats. A little money in my pocket. After I’ll ride the metro to feel less alone.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment