L.A.
I feel shaky, my hands quaky.
My skin peeling off. Bits of me blowing in the dry, hot wind.
I speak the language of city lights and traffic, fluent in the rage born in that trapped feeling.
“Don’t forget to compare yourself!” cries the city. “Don’t forget to measure your pain!”
Sparkling eyes and bright voices, speak in spiritual tongues.
But nowhere to be heard is the light gurgle of laughter, or the gentle ringing bell of a curiously asked question.
“we should meet for coffee” he says “you can talk for an hour and tell me all about it”
before name dropping a celebrity to remind of his importance.
Streams of sounds pass, the revving of the cars the only constant.
Chocking on my choices, my sleep leaves with my hope.