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you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
dark
snotty
gross
subhuman
wheezings
from ****
itself.
your mind
almost breaks
under those
death-like
sounds
and the
intermingling
odors:
hard
unwashed socks
****** and
*******
underwear
and over it all
slowly circulating
air
much like that
emanating from
uncovered
garbage
cans.
and those
bodies
in the dark
fat and
thin
and
bent
some
legless
armless
some
mindless
and worst of
all:
the total
absence of
hope
it shrouds
them
covers them
totally.
it's not
bearable.
you get
up
go out
walk the
streets
up and
down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back
up
the same
street
thinking
those men
were all
children
once
what has happened
to
them?
and what has
happened
to
me?
it's dark
and cold
out
here.
My back touched the fabric
of the couch
as I slouched and tilted my head.

I let my elbow fell on the armchair
as my thumb flew between my lips
and my teeth perched on its flesh.

My forefinger
ran back and forth, restlessly,
on my nose bridge

as I inhaled the details
of your head thrown backward,
your hair suspended in midair.

some strands draping down your chest,
your mouth half open,
your secret self and your entire being

all seducing my peripheral vision.
~Lacus Crystalthorn 2013

— The End —