The street is predawn quiet. Approaching footsteps worry me. Up the block I see a man with the gait of an early morning worker, not a late night killer. Nothing to fear. Keys jingle and a van comes to life. He opens the door. I say good morning. He slams it shut. Oh well.
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.
Comments
Post a Comment