On the way home I cut through a hole in a chain link fence, climb a mountain of snow on the edge of a parking lot. At the top a young boy eyes me cautiously, snow shovel in his hand held like he’s waiting for a pitch. Behind the grocery store a rat disappears in a drift. I hope it finds some place warm.
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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