On Surviving A Crackhead In The BLDG by Julia Taveras

© Flickr/Adam Brawerman
© Flickr/Adam Brawerman

I am her. Her blood flows from my pen. Her cries tremble inside my eyes and they flood with rage. “This house is but a butchery/ Fear it, abhor it/ Do not enter it.” Shakespeare was talking about structure on this one; our structure. Social structures: the ones that shun those without title or consumption (consumption of concept as well).

Listen—she was singing the saddest memory. I mean, in the shape and sound of a melody it echoed across the hallway. The door—LA PARED—bounced her voice and hid my fear, my pity, my ambivalence. But mostly, what the wall hid was my anger at the system, and the systematic reactions of those around me.

Call the landlord.

Call the cops.

End of story.

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