My Cardboard Balcony

But Then the Street Lamps by Belinda Roddie When I've got my black hoodie and khakis on, it's like I'm invisible in the dirtiest part of the city. I keep a blade against my hip and courage in a drawn out thread across my chest - tattooed, scribbled, scarred. When I go to the store for a six pack and a bag of Doritos, the clerk doesn't question me. He speaks English, bad English, but it's enough for the transaction to go smoothly. When he asks for ten bucks, I give him eleven, and drop the loose Washington into the "donation" jar like a cheap smile on a full moon night. When I meet my gang on the corner of Ravine and Tower, there's already been a shitstorm. I give them a can of beer each and a crunch of artificial cheese dust. They wipe blood from their noses and off the frayed collars of their white T-shirts. Why wear white when the fabric can get so red? I have no idea. And when the cheap booze is drained, we chase each ot

We are surrounded by the power of franchise, of bright neon labels and soul-breaking guarantees. We have remote controls buried under the flesh of our arms so when we try to mash the mute button while watching the news, we risk bruising or internal bleeding. When our eyes are strained, we are still reprimanded for turning our eyes away from the gladiatorial spectacle. But unlike what the older members of society may believe, we are not apathetic. We are simply exhausted.