A man with hair grey like mine hobbles up on two canes. Waiting for the bus he tries to light a cig. As-tu un feu he asks when his doesn’t work. Our hands touch as I pass him mine. His skin is smooth like he’s never been exposed to work or weather, or entirely too much fire. I shudder when I look in his eyes.
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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