Haggard people hurry by me on the street. I give them all stories. Like in a warm apartment smelling of dinner someone is waiting. The air thick with love. I pray I’m delusional and most return to cold dark rooms and meowing cats. I want us all to be alone together.
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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