Middle of the night and klaxons screech. I jump from bed and gather clothes, the fire department often arrives at its leisure. Panicked voices in the corridor drown out the sound of my piss against porcelain. False alarm, hollers a man. Doors slam. I’m awake. I might as well write.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment