I smoke a cig on the stoop of a storefront, plywood’s covered the entrance for two winters, pigeon shit-stains under my feet. My bag hangs on a makeshift handle to save my back the strain. When the bus rolls up I’m the first to get on. I fall into a seat and it’s all giving in from this moment on. The road is a river and I’m floating along.
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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