On a curb in front of the building I smoke a cigarette. An old habit though something is off. I’ve been gone for too long. It hardly feels like home. Montréal is full of reasons to smile, but my best one is currently away. So I use my phone to search for flights I can’t afford.
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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