Dest

I’ve seen their kind before, and to the best of my knowledge I’ve seen your kind before. It seems like that’s my career now, seeing. Seeing when sight is a privilege, eyes when I wished them away. I saw the tense ones, the calm ones. Stoic men and hearts staid by meditation. I watched them pass by and return, the crack-heads and pill-poppers, base-heads and shoplifters. The ones with faces that shrieked their misfortune, sins etched permanently into grooves of waxy skin. Through pupils pale green, bitter cold like an arctic slap, nerves severed two inches too early. The heroes, the destitute. All different, yet all seen, all same.