A cigarette burns between my fingers as I sit on the curb. The sidewalk is wet with air conditioning discharge. A pile of trash less than a meter away is starting to cook. Last night I was showing her pictures of the sandy beach I grew up on. I’ve always been confused.
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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