I dart into traffic. A benefit of being in this quarter. So many drug addicts. Most of them men my age riding bikes same as me. They’re prone to erratic behaviour. Drivers are aware. I take advantage. I swerve and yell at the top of my lungs. The day is over. I’m alive.
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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