I leave when I always do. I rush but I don’t run to the bus stop. There’s just enough time for the cigarette I desire. After swiping my card I sit. The driver has a heavy foot. Jazz tinkles from a radio. Sunlight flickers on strange faces across from me. My eyelids slowly lower.
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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