I watch the rooming house door. I want to see him limp out. Though it’s been too many weeks since anyone’s heard from him. And when men like him die they’re incinerated by the government quicker than we like to think. If no on cares you’re easily disposable. I push ink through a screen. He and I are the same.
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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