The café windows are foggy. At a common table she works. I read stories set in the city we live. Familiar street names make it easy to see myself in them though decades have passed since they were written. People never change. The rent always rises. And hot coffee warms the soul on cold days.
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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