At a red wooden table in the bistrot I sit eating a date square. Nearby an old woman wearing un chandail marinière tells her friend Miss Piggy used to be avant-garde, but now everyone looks like that. I hide behind a book and drink a mug of coffee. I’m a part of Saint-Henri. It’s a part of me.
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