the generic sounds of
car horns and screeching tires
mixed with the stagnant smell
of smog and cigarette smoke
linger around the perimeter
of my mind

finely placed cracks
along my heels
and lips
drip bits
of me
onto
the
street
leaving behind
my skin
as if to say
"This is me, world. This is all I am."

the washed up,
frail bits of humanity
struggle and fight
to stay valid

but nobody remembers, anymore

and if it weren't for dysphoria,
I doubt we'd feel much at all

we are merely reminders
of yesterday
and without our sweaty hands
shaking each other
there will be no way
to tell what is
and what has been