A hooker sleeps in a flower box out front the pizza parlour. Both hands clasped under her head she looks cozy, like a child taking a nap. But I see no innocence in the man who wakes her. They talk while she rubs her eyes. He doesn’t help her stand. I watch them walk away. I hope she fucking robs him.
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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