In the middle of the laundromat tears flow. I gather my coats, a cigarette will help. Flame flicks, I inhale as the employee comes out to say my dryer stopped. I beg her to put another quarter in. I apologize for being me. I pass her a coin. Her hands are smooth and her eyes are worried.
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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