The bus is on time. The card reader’s busted and I sit at the back beside a cute brunette. I sneak a look at the shape of her legs in tight black jeans. Small things go a long way. Time and circumstance made a pervert of me. Factories outside breathe smoke into the air.
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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