From the bottom of the escalator I hear excitement at the top. On surface level I spy three sun-drenched bums cutting up lines on a ledge near the window. Beautiful day outside but it’s snowing in the metro. They stop to eye me as I pass. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good nine-thirty a.m.
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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