14th Street is less lively than I’m used to, nearly dead. A few tourists make the most of a holiday they paid for or put on credit. I have to piss, and this isn’t the place to consider it. But I take advantage of the tranquility; I unbutton my fly on a shuttered business. Hot steam rises into the air.
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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