A sea of people pass as I smoke a half gram joint. Tourists look on in disgust as a woman rummages through the trash for cans, but everyone’s got to eat. I head into the subway at 42nd St. A man dressed like a golfer is pissing on the stairs, I smile, it’s good to be back.
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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