We sit in the ashes, fragile as eggshells, pacing the room and trying not to make any noise.

We cower from the light and are ashamed of ourselves, ashamed of everything that we have become, afraid of everything that we are. We have taken all the mirrors down from the walls, we have become ugly. Our skin is no longer supple and serene, and we reek of places we have been. Nobody will speak to us anymore.

Nobody will come near this place, cluttered with what could have been, decaying with the stench of unrealized worth, why would they come even if they could. All we do it sit here, lay on the ground and beg life to run over us again and again. Seated at the end of the word with a swing that goes back and forth into the abyss. But we never jump off, even though there is nothing left for us here, we never jump.

We swing back and forth like pendulums, dull noises in our heads from too much time looking out the window. But at least the buzz of idle chatting and stupid worries are over, we have real things to talk about now.

We wanted to be starving artists, so here we are, starving. For attention and for love and for beauty, looking for it in the face of the ashes, trying to find it in the places everyone else is looking for it, only to find it already used up, already gone.

They take love, didn’t they tell you? Butcher it and cut it up into tiny little pieces still covered in blood and they tell you this is enough. Because if you try hard enough you can be loved and wonderful and beautiful. Wait your turn in line, wait your turn and have love.

But it never came, it never did.

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