The Surface and The Cracks

The city breathes a slow, deep inhale of sirens and distant arguments and then a long

exhale of quiet desperation. Tonight, the Marlborough Projects are just

another lung in this concrete giant. The elevator light flickers like a dying pulse.

I lean against the gritty stairwell walls, my reflection in the dim,

scratched metal, a stranger I'm trying to recognize. Disgusted at what I just did,

I adjust the strap of my top, a piece of clothing that feels more like a costume.

I practice a smile, pulling the corners of my mouth up, but it feels foreign, like a language

I've forgotten. The muscle memory is there, but the meaning is gone.