Frozen puddles reflect streetlights. The concrete is cracked and white. A freight train rumbles out of town as thick snow falls. It looks like a painting even if it’s one I don’t like. I beg for budding trees while I smoke a cigarette. I know my hopes are in vain. So I don’t hold my breath.
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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