It hits me walking out of the store. That man. He used to see Us together. He worked the counter when We came in for beer, wine, mix and ice. The times were good. Then writing took over my life. It ate away at what We had. I smoke a cigarette waiting for the bus.
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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