[dead]
why do you bother to lift your voice? no matter how ceremoniously high your voice becomes as it shouts, taking up residency only in the vast recesses of cloudy sky, no one will ever notice you. the decibels will never be heard, and isn't it only a waste of spirit to hope someone will pay even slight attention? you are nothing. you are riffraff, street trash, nothing more than a scrounging rat in the garbage. why would anyone in his right mind pay attention to you?
no passerby will care that your name isn't 'hey you'. they simply choose to ignore the fact that you're mush, that you're kid blink, that you're jack, and you're racetrack. skittery is a made-up word to them, not something to be renowned as. who would call himself itey, or snoddy, or pie eater, or crutchy? calculated, justified hell. your name isn't even good enough to be capitalized.
and where, cruel newsboy, is your dining room tonight? surely you don't plan on eating that food you've just discovered in the midst of the other week-old trash behind that restaurant. and if you do, how can you expect to earn anything but disgust? respect isn't something given, but discovered over time. your hasty childhood and eternal life as an adult brings a sneer to even the kindest of patrons. the smile on his face is painted. it's not a real indulgent grin from that woman; if only you could see inside to the repulse she feels in her heart. the sight of your dirty face, your ink-stained palms, your sun-ripened skin is enough to send that little girl's heart into a hysterical stampede. king of new york? the city does not belong to you. she is merely terrified of you.
who among you is contemplating his death tonight? three dead last week, all suicides. yes, we all know about it. the folks of this town pretend to ignore you, but you are their favorite gossip discussion, after all. notice that new boy in the corner—unnamed still, unseen still, though he's been in your midst for three weeks—and see that demonic smile lighting his dimples on fire? he's not imagining a beautiful girl, or his loving, deceased mother. he's remembering the feeling of the noose around his neck the last time he tried to take his life. look away now, look out the window, through the vague curtains, and see the outline of the smoking boy. his cigarette is merely for display. his eyes look out over the city, haunted and calm. his hands are so delicately placed on the railing surrounding the little iron balcony. just like juliet. and death, romeo, is beneath, personified in the hard-packed earth crushed under a moonlit awning. how long will it take for him to crash to the ground? he's not quite sure. but he can't help but imagine just how beautiful his splayed shower of crimson will look spread upon romeo's face. and look over there—closer to your heart. your best friend this week, what's-his-name. don't you see how his eyes keep shifting about? he's wondering when you will all go to sleep. he has a deliciously sharp knife stowed under his pillow, and tomorrow his body will be gathered in his blood-soaked sheets, and you will need a new soul friend. but it's okay, isn't it? best friends aren't so hard to come by.
and you. you're special, aren't you? oh yes, no one could ever replace you. if the roles were reversed, he would have one chillingly cold lifetime thereafter. because you, my dastardly friend, you are unique. you are special. you do not resign yourself to the dregs of the city as your rapid brothers do. no, your death would be speculated for some time. in this limp world, you alone have a unique personality, a different way of yelling, a personalized route that makes you distinct. no, do not worry about him; never worry about him. he's not as lucky as you. and never forget that if it were reversed, it'd be different.
oh, wait.
you're just like him.
you're just like them.
you are all the same.
too bad.
yes, go imagine that poignant noose with the other boy; the gourmet knot is loosed just enough for your neck. climb out the window to the tear-soaked balcony; the fiendish railing is at just the height for you to balance on. go to your best friend's bunk and trace a finger against the lace of the knife's blade; it's scalloped just for your saffron skin.
you look around at your silent comrades, at the suffering mixed around the room. and for the first time, you notice something different.
no one in a city of cold ambition and stifled compassion cares if you live or die.
go on. fade to nothingness.
a black life is behind you, a black life is before you, suffering and pain and toil and the other fruits of labor await your current acknowledgment.
good hell. wake up.
the bleak reverie is over.
you're all dead anyway.