Walking quickly through Saint-Henri I notice the sky. A half moon hangs low on the horizon while I slip along icy sidewalks toward my apartment. I smoke a cigarette in a doorway. My skin is cracking. The wind is picking up. I’m happy to have somewhere to go.
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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