Sitting on the steps of an abandoned bank that became an abandoned wine bar, I light a cigarette. Two teens smile at me. An older man with tan skin, in a hoodie I notice every day, has given up his dirty looks. We’re a part of each other’s lives. I exhale my first drag.
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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