A lost child in a burned out park,
The gray where flowers once stood.
A memory.
I thought humans were better.
I'm alone.
No not alone,
But lonely in that feeling
Of care and healing done communally.
There is this western ideal.
It's called individuality.
Some have it translated to
“Only I and what I want matter;
Only I and what I approve of are alive.”
Worthy of life.
Not worthy of life.
Three letters mean a lot.
The rest of us move through life masked.
Hoping they don't recognise us.
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