Deny
The air tastes like shit, a blend of exhaust and the ghosts of trees that aren’t coming back. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere’s ruins, belly full of tomorrow’s hope and today’s despair. My skin’s drenched in a heat that the sun’s too ashamed to claim. I’m as exposed as the truth we try to bury under concrete and steel. There’s a life inside me, a tiny heartbeat thumping against the odds.
Behind me, she stands — a giant of metal and silence. She’s supposed to be the future, a monument to what? Our desire to outlast the mess we’ve made? To replace the softness of flesh with the cold comfort of iron and wire? She’s a dream half-dreamt, a warning half-heeded.
Hey, you… yeah, you behind the screen, hiding in your sanctuary. You look lonely, caught in the lie that this isn’t your problem. Do you see me? Really see me? Not just the curves and the bare skin, but the fuck-you defiance in my stance? I’m more than this moment’s muse. I’m the mouthpiece of a planet we’re loving to death, whispering sweet nothings while it chokes.
You and I, we’re the climax of a story that’s spiraling out of control, a narrative drenched in irony and the sweat of a world working itself to death. We’re tangled up in this, you know. In the silent plea of my unborn, in the questions they’ll ask with their first gasping breaths. What’ll I tell them? That we fucked up but it was worth it for the high score in the game of progress?
The shadows stretch out, long and accusing, pointing at us like we’re next on trial. The light’s bleeding out, pink and raw across the sky — nature’s last stand in the art show of our folly. And as the day kisses us goodbye with a bite, I wonder, are we the art or the audience? Maybe both.
Here’s the thing: there’s no neat end to this, no curtain call or applause waiting. Just the hush of a world that might be past saving, a canvas smeared with too many goodbyes. So, what are you gonna do? Drive home to a house full of stuff and a head full of could-have-beens?
The night’s coming, and it’s sad as fuck, like a lullaby that’s forgotten its words. We’re just here, you and me, and the silence that’s too heavy to hold. And tomorrow? Well, that’s the most abstract art of all.