Flowers growing out of concrete;
ivy clinging to the cement like
I cling to the sounds of the city
singing me to sleep.
Sirens in the distance,
but closer to home
than I'd like to think.
like a cigarette burning in my hand-
the smoke rising into the air
like I am a factory
working hard to make something
out of the pieces inside me.
Reassurance that I am a monument...
That I am a skyline in an urban jungle
built from scars and flesh, bones and ash.
Heartache and hope.
Blood runs through my veins
like the cars that drive down these streets,
and I am at home
in a place that is so loud
it drowns out the sounds of myself-
of the things that brought me here;
the things that changed me
from a person
into a dangerous landscape.
Darling, you are so pure
and it seems I lie through my teeth
more than I grind them in my sleep
I simply don't
that I am nothing more than skin stretched over cracking bones.
— The End —