I drink hot coffee and write. I eat the lunch I didn’t have then for dinner now. It tastes off but it’s easier than preparing something else. Outside the wind is colder than expected. Huddled in a piss-stained corner I smoke a cigarette. I haven’t always been 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.
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