The dollarstore clerk looks good with red lipstick. Her blue eyes shine telling me what I owe. Our hands touch as she gives me my change. My gaze lingers longer than it should, but she doesn’t break it until the line begins to grumble. I leave with a wink, her husky voice calls out suivant / next.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment