Under an awning I smoke a cigarette out of the rain. People clutch umbrellas. The lights in the bookstore across the street go dark. I feel someone looking at me. Humans are black silhouettes in the café windows. Streetlights glisten yellow on the pavement. I exhale.
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