Dystopia.

There's a hole in the world like a great black pit,
its morals aren't worth what a pig could spit,
and it's full of people who are full of shit,
and the vermin of the world inhabit it.

I walk through these streets filled with grime and dust and feel the layers on the soles of my feet. The kind of dirty layers that are so thick it dulls the feel of the cement under your feet as you drag along. I can tell my heels are black without ever looking. Somewhere, children are sleeping on the couch in front of the t.v. Somewhere, caged dogs are snarling, angry, waiting for the next chance to bite a chunk of flesh through to the bone. Glass shatters in an alleyway nearby and a group of strangers laughs to some nonexistant joke. Can you taste the arbitrary? Oh, contrary. This means everything. And the sweat is pooling on your brow before we meet, but I wouldn't know. The holes in the knees of your jeans show where you've been. Please fasten your seatbelts and put your trays in their locked and upright positions. Prepare for a bit of turbulance. That goddamn dog on the other side of the fence is barking and snarling with its teeth. There is no refuge. We were in a place once where soot danced down from the skies and my biggest fear was losing hold of your hand when we ran. And we ran.

Pristine condition marble-laced floors, can't you smell the paint? Fresh and new. Deep and blue. Like me and you. She is fading so far from me. Sitting in my bathroom, dying her hair that black, black color that it was until that last day, and when I told her that the shower wasn't working, she said, let's take a bath. Nudge. Me and you? Smile. It'll be fun. And I ran my fingers through her hair to get all the black out, and it stained for weeks, under my nails and in my cuticles, the way blackness can linger in the cracks of your soul. But this hurt wasn't risidual, no sireee. Because we kissed and I let her find the shampoo on her own while those bouncy red curls and crooked buck teeth watched us from behind the video camera, with the water so black it looked like tar and her knees far enough apart to touch the sides. And I watched that video back a hundred times before I finally deleted it. I watched the part where she whispered to me so that the camera couldn't hear, her lips turned up and slow-moving. What did she say, anyway? What did she say?

Dragging myself up out of this shallow grave and shaking the dirt out of my hair, I'm not a fucking phoenix from the ashes, but an old patchwork quilt, sewn and torn and stitched and mended to keep you warm. You don't always have to have new things, do you? This could all be just for you. Every breath you breathe. Can you feel the chills and the knots in your stomach? Haven't you EVER tried and failed? Believe. Pockets full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.