The reading ends and I scurry out the door. In front of a darkened café I smoke a cig. I intend to return, socialize, but the pressure is too great. A voice inside my flesh demands to be taken home, coddled, wrapped in blankets. I hurry off before I’m seen.
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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