In John Cabot Square I count nine police officers for one black male. He curses as two of them go through his things, I would as well. The rest of the cops crowd around like adolescents observing a fight. My father once said no one ever graduates high school. I hate that he was right.
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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