Coming out of the subway I pull cigarettes from my pocket. On the ride here I was reading, got lost in the words, now I need to see people. A voice cries sir as I scroll for fire. A crackhead waves. She asks for a cig, and I tell her you got it. Appreciate it mister, she nods. I don’t disbelieve her.
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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