On the library stairs, a stranger stops to commend me for smoking. Don’t let the assholes tell you what to do he says, giving his fist a pump. I answer with don’t tread on me and it’s time to bump knuckles. I take a long drag as he ambles away. Days that start bad often get better.
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