I sit on a graffiti covered ledge. I light a cigarette. From here I see the top of Mont Royal. Trees obscure the mansions on its side. But closer to me it’s social housing and dumpsters, a church with broken spires. This suits me. I go home to write.
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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