These streets were once the brightest. The neon colors used to blend into the hallow puddles. The shadows of buildings were tall and frightening. Now they stood forlorn as crumbling foundations.
As I carefully stepped over broken concrete, I could hear my mother's voice telling me to not do so; and I think she had a point.
The darkened sky would howl and cry-- the grey clouds never moving. I think I angered someone with my neglect to superstition.
I tried scavenging for life-- a green plant, or a distant scream. My hands were gathering frost, but I kept looking. Who dared look over the wasteland, whistling a tune? Me. I thought I was crazy.
In a fleeting moment, I kicked the dust off the ground and screamed profanity at the wind for blowing it in my eyes. I'd try to persuade the trees to grow apples because I was hungry.
I was losing the plot.
There was an apocalypse inside my mind, and a shattered city in my core. My gut kept rolling the dice, and the voices in my head roared louder with each gamble.
My liver took a good beating by sunrise, and my heart never stopped searching for its purpose.