Holding hands we wander avenue Duluth. We look at cats lying in a cafè window though we both find it too gross to ever go inside. A few blocks away a choir sings in the street. Standing behind her I gently touch her hips. She pulls my arms around her waist.
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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