Leaning against the rooming house he looks like he stepped off the bus from Calgary. Wide brimmed hat and boots, a tasseled leather jacket and faded blue jeans. But this isn’t the corner for rustling cattle. And the way he eyes men in cars, I don’t think he knows a thing about horses.
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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