This city is too quiet. This city judges me. This city doesn't feel like home. What even is home to me anymore? In my bubble of self-destruction, I even imagine myself amidst the flames. Hot, fiery lava just erupting out of my fragile bones leaving debris in every corner I turn. As the embers crackle in the air, I imagine myself thinking, “finally some noise in this dead city.” So I scream as loud as my decaying lungs let me and thrust my arms up to the sky. Then, I take a step out of the demolition and watch. Watch as everything I’ve ever known and could never get myself to love, burns to a tiny pile of ash. I pick it up with two shaking hands and lather it all over my body. “Finally”, I think, “some colour in this dead soul.”
