amber

hate to see pain, but i see it everywhere. my own despair turns secondary; my eyes and ears are filled with stories of people broken by circumstance, torn and raped by a society that tolerates little, and exacts far too much.

their pain becomes mine, i feel it leaching into my bones. i feel it gather with intent. i let them become mine, and not yet mine.

my own pain?

the inability to string them into something delicate, something sombre, something inward.

i lost my words.
i lost my voice.

everything is stolen. and it's all because of a few careless whispers, a few irresponsible words.

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bright side: happy meal at the Golden arches. and actually felt satisfied wtih the pint-sized servings.