We are both under the influence.
The effects are perhaps slightly different but we are heavily drugged none the less. It’s the city and this is what happens to people who were meant to live like vermin.
Your heart is a fluorescent pink and your skin is worn and see-through, like rice paper wrapped tight around your rib case, pretty boy breaking, you are so intelligent, and now you look like a terrifying lantern, your emotions lighting up the concrete walls like warped little creatures in a shadow puppet play.
And my heart goes on and off like a siren, either dead silent, cynical bitch with a second hand attitude, didn’t they love you when you were little?, or roaring like an engine out of control, the screws coming loose, and there are tears under my finger nails and the chap stick doesn’t last nearly eight hours even though it said so on the tube.
And the old naco continues to stand on the corner wailing a sad Mexican ballad that no one wants to hear…