Flammable

Heat. Orange. In flames. In fiery streaks of melting construction.
This world which was once built on a foundation of steel and strength has now been molded into a gnarled remainder of what used to be. There is no light. There are no mirrors.


It's just you, and whatever your outstretched arms can gather. Can remember.


Memories. Flashback. Panic. Colors dance in front of your eyes, back and forth, until the shadows dissolve them just like they dissolved themselves. Absent from absence itself.


I'm walking. I'm walking slowly. But I'm going backwards. I know this because they tell me. Everyone.


I'm surrounded. I try to think. Where did everything go wrong? Was it always like this? Have I always been surviving instead of living?


So I breathe. Inhale, exhale. I close my eyes.


Inhale, exhale.


I'm living. I'm living. Slowly.


Heat. Orange. In flames. In fiery streaks of melting construction.


This world will never change. This world will never be the same.


Inhale, exhale. Just like our parents. Just like our ancestors.


Just like our neighbor who's on the registered sex offender list. Just like the girl that looks in the mirror every morning, every night, every chance she gets, hoping that one time she won't be disappointed by what she sees. The swelter never leaves.


Heat. Orange. In flames. In fiery streaks of melting construction.