The cold laughs its way through my parka. On the damp pavement in front of the metro sits an Inuit woman. She wears a jean jacket and an infectious grin. Her voice is a song as she begs for change. Before leaving the apartment I slid coins in my pocket without a thought. I’m glad I did.
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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