The rotten stink of fish coming from a giant box reminds me of my youth and a job long gone. Shuffling in front of the building I smoke as the air bites my skin with icey teeth, but I’m numb. My mind is two weeks from now, this city and life are far behind. I’m sleeping late, the bed is 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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