White lips , pale face and breathing in snow flakes . This is my second day of my horrifying chocking tears destroying the skin cells on my checks ,my once cleansed and kept together face , lightly layering in fumes and grub from the passing of cars . At each touchable person passing my eye site ... That realisation that I pushed myself to the boundaries had kicked in. for which led to the lowest point of life ...
Living on the streets.
They judge me as soon as my body language degrades and looks unprofessional. The once glancing man whistling to me as I walked in these very streets had focused his eager eyes on the towering women above me. I rest on the post office wall of London Town, they have given me a harsh notice that I need to find a knew place to rest by dawn ... By dawn. But for now I sit and watch the variety of legs with different professions , cultures and ethnities rush and clamper past.. I'm not going to beg ... I'm not going to steal a pen to write a ghost message on a pizza box . I'm going to cry in fear of the life ahead of me. I don't know what to do. How to sit my body up. How to stop imagining my life getting better. The Images of home loop constantly in my mind. My mother scrambling for her warn out camera every time she could see a memory happening. A skinny woman warn to the bone with her nursing outfit stained with stress marks. She had this emotional look about her all the time, like she was devoted to spending the remains of her life covering up a hurricane of pain from me. My mother had brought me up to a great standard as time went on. My farther had left typically when I was too young, and in fact that might have been the last time I cried... Besides the part where I got eliminated from society and kicked out of a well earned London apartment.
