Unending shards of glass cut my face,
melt and mix with my sweat.
I blink, the road changing instantly:
dry, wet, slick,
it reflects the orange streetlights as I
emerge onto Western Ave, congested with
rush hour stragglers and now the glass
turns to knives, no longer scratching, but
slicing into me. I don't feel my legs anymore.
I am only a face, blindly making my way
home.
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