Paying, I leave a small tip. Shoving the fresh baguette into my bag I don’t worry if it breaks, like the escalator has. Descending the stairs I pull out my metro card. At the bottom a woman is sweeping the floor. I smile. She looks away like an animal scared in the wild.
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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