No Hiding Place

Your sleep is as short as your life. Your body aches and you wonder if it is the floor or the sharp pain in your joints that jolts you up even before the cock. You scurry to the store, sore and barefoot, to get your wares while fighting the echoing burn that reminds you of the f(r)iend in your stomach. You yawn to let him out, but he holds tight onto your intestines.

Twist. Twist. The skin on your face squeezes in response. You keep moving. Third Mainland Bridge is your fort. The one that sends you racing after a speedy vehicle to sell a bottle of water rejected for not being chilled enough. You watch as water trickles down the bottle when another buyer calls. Like an expert, you sway to the other end of the bridge. Rejected. Again. And again. Your face is the picture of a child running. His little hands clutching his chest. His mouth gasping. His eyes on the medal. Only to be told when he gets to the end that the whistle was yet to be blown.
Somewhere the sun smiles.
A new offer beckons. You’re armed, forcing alms out of people. When they don’t give, you shoot. Those terrified eyes, they steal your sleep.
One morning, you’re on the bridge. Floating in the arms of another. Water trickling down your body.

Again, the sun smiles.

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