My laundry stops. It’s wet so I put quarters in the machine. A man asks me how much time he gets for his money. He thanks me when I tell him. I finish writing. I step outside to smoke a cigarette. Rap music plays in my headphones. I yell violent lyrics as people pass. It’s a beautiful night.
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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