The smile on his face, it faded away in thought. The streets look like smears of paint against the windowpane. The outline of his form pressed itself into the shadows before he turned away, removing his clothes in the night. He laid back onto the futon, dreams of distaste shimmering across his burning eyelids.

Bile. He coughed it down and slowly pushed the lit cigarette into his arm. The reminder of them all, outwardly so. No one can see the scars of the heart. He needed to quit, he thought. His mouth tasted of dirt, smog and death.

GOD ISN’T SAFE AGAIN

He thought about that before his fingers danced their way onto the power button as the song drifted away. We use bad logic and drink motor oil. We are “God” within ourselves, trapped. Camouflage. Masks of negligence and indifference. We both watched the setting sun. At that time, we laughed as we cried.

He closed his eyes, mind and wrote. And wrote.