I thought we were going to high-five. She smiles, says me too. The sound of slapping palms takes me back years, a younger coworker I’d make jump. I tell The Barista. She says it’s easier for me to come down to her. I look in her eyes, loneliness begs me to fall and fall and fall. But I don’t.
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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