Homeless avoiding the cold block the main exits. Two men lounge in the foyer. Another is having a psychotic break in the stairwell beside my apartment. Allowing them their peace, I sneak out back to smoke. In the parking lot, among the graffiti and the moon, it’s silent. I get what I give.
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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