I take a break from sweating to sit on the stoop. Across the street a hooker peels off on a mountain bike. An old man in a suit made for greek holidays follows behind, his chrome coloured scooter glows in the sun. They return too quickly for him to come. He must’ve bought drugs. I light a joint.
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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