Lately, when I walk the halls early in the morning, I’ve been getting the creeps. I’m always alone. And all it takes is a single unruly crackhead to stab me, rifle through my pockets for nothing, to spit on me as I die there looking up. Grim. But I keep returning.
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