Time passes easy before the weight of the café crushes me. I use the bathroom. Coming out, a man who looks like Tommy Chong is staring at me; he says I look like a long-lost friend, one of the best people he ever met. I laugh, I wink, and I tell him I am too.
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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