well look at me, still thinking of myself.

An undressed four year old looked me in the eye and told me that he hated himself. Part of me hated the way that it was a thousand times more genuine than a politican has ever spat in my direction and part of me quivered at the way that his broken heart hadn't even been given a chance. Mine, mine, mine was the only word he could speak confidently and his knuckles were the only ball he'd ever managed to toss with the assurance that it would be caught.

Four hours away from my own home was a rundown trailer surrounded by woods and filled by a group of people who had no idea what the next morning would bring. My heart broke and my throat twisted and I almost lost my lunch: from the stench of poor living conditions and the lack of life. Good luck, four year old; good luck in the world that's looking to break your already tangled heart.