Before going into work I smoke a cig around the corner. I scroll the news so I’ll have something to talk about. The police are cracking down on the mob. Satellite images suggest we live inside a black hole. Riots continue in Los Angeles. I write my love to tell her that’s what she is.
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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