I posted a pretty picture to Facebook and received sixty-three likes in twenty-nine hours.
Somewhere else entirely I wander through an overgrown orchard and gather in my basket quick fragments of those who mean well but don’t see it. I let a wide, straw hat meet my eyebrows and obscure my vision because there isn’t much I want to see. While picking sickly-soft, moldy fruit from trees in a bored way I feel my crinkling, summer-skin lightly open to the thorn bushes I tramp through. Beads of new ruby bloom across my shins but I’m not bothered enough to change paths. While certainly a vagrant I am not aimless. I look like I’m thriving; hair longer and smile brighter with each passing month, (I feel intensely transient. My label reads sparkler but I am closer to a moonshine firework. If you hold on too long you’re bound to lose partial hearing and at least one finger.) I am clawing dry dirt, watering small graves with sweat while digging for any roots that I can double knot myself into with hope they’ll keep me tethered to this earth.
I wish sixty-three people would really take a look.
Contraposition 