In this flat light it is hard to tell where I stand.
I walk past a building, or a space that holds some ghost of an emotion, and it seems like I am still there, hanging in the past.
A face conjures up some draft of an idea that I am unable to reconcile with the current circumstances.
I was so broken… so utterly irredeemable, and yet here I am; all shiny and new. I wear matching clothes and I pretend not to know how transparent my mask has become.
Everything is on the surface, so that it blends in with the passing of the seasons. I wear the loss of alternatives just like a bad tattoo.
But everyone seems to have tattoos these days.
