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The Lost City

The city’s sin is our existence– exiled to a concrete cavern where days are measured by slivers of light through sewer grate bars. A flashlight and prayer guide my way, but there are times when neither can help you. I’ve gotten used to blood in the back of my throat, swallowed like my pride, but only one returns when old wounds refuse to heal. The Saints– bearing socks and cigarettes– say there is a way out, a way to be whole again, but I used pieces of me like breadcrumbs, back to the ice-covered double-wide where palm tree dreams kept me warm. My trust is trapped on the liminal highways from Ohio to Nevada. My Innocence was eroded in teenage fear and street corner deals. My youth was left in Clark County jail. Only when I came to collect what I lost did I realize it was gone. Descent is subtle in that way– a slow decay until there is no direction home. So you drift like I did, in search of something that can fill the hole. The truth is no one is ever truly whole. High rollers, with women draping their arms, and addicts on the nod are both bathed in the same purple glow, mind telling themselves lies eyes refuse to see. Everyone is a ghost, buried in neon.

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