Standing on the street I’m happy to be alive. It’s hard to believe where I am, the life I call mine. The other night I let it hurt my feelings when she giggled at my accent, but I should think my father sitting in his armchair. He never knew the joys I do. No woman like this ever looked at him like that.
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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