In a bistro I order coffee and an amandine. At a table out front I devour the sweet and savour the other. I read an essay on zen buddhism from a stolen hardcover library book. I chased an urge and took it from the thief. I was being righteous then, today I’m being humble. I smoke a cigarette.
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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