Even in those lowest moments, you keep your dignity. Even when things get so lonely, you smile despite the despair gnawing away at you like a rat chewing through cables. Sunken chests, and the way you paint your face even when no one is looking. Such beauty ignored in favour of sleaze, but cheap always wins. It’s the easiness that does it. If they think there’s a voice that belongs to the body, then they’ll look the other way. Pour yourself a glass, and step inside. Say something that will melt this cold heart of mine. Speak a truth that others will be afraid of. Watch me as I roll a cigarette as the clouds fall from the sky and inhale themselves into our lungs. It’s dusk, yet there’s too much junk for things to feel romantic, so instead we pretend that it’s just not worth it. I’m a writer, but that’s nothing to be proud of, not in this town. Words turn me on. Imagination as sensual as a lover slipping into something less. It’s a frowned upon way of being, yet there’s just no helping it. Wrap yourself in my blanket, and tell me what it feels like to be you. Put yourself in my arms, and tell me what you see when faced with the sea of death that floats above our heads. All those stars, dying hopelessly without even the flimsiest of epitaphs. All those galaxies, unseen like the marks on your arms. I would write more, but the thought of you makes me want to taint the air. It’s such a common thing, but we’re only human after all.