Tied to a pole is a dog with a dark face and golden body. You’re beautiful! I declare as I pass. A young French mother with messy braids looks at me. Her lips move. I pull out an earbud. You and I…we thought similar…it’s spéciale. C’est ça I agree. But I’m talking about the moment, not the beast.
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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