living here, i can hear footsteps over my head, as they climb over the allotment, leave ends of spliffs in the grass, and cans littering the green, they walk past the chicken coop, they climb and stomp onto the gritty ledge as if i don't exist, how would they know i am down here? softly weeping, masturbating, sleeping, dreaming. i hear snippets, broken conversation "i need a white girl", bad ringtones, discussions about DJ's. i am hiding almost aligned with the cinderblock.

when i shower, i hop out and pad to the bedroom, by the time i sit down my feet are black with filth. i have almost given up trying to make things look nice, what a sham, what a life at 24, almost a quarter of a century old.

junkies, pale, eyes rolling, never quite there in the room with you, always mumbling, marbles free falling, crashing against the floor, waiting for you to pick them up, i never can quite understand. you found some hash on the floor at a festival? good for you, you snuck those drugs up in clingfilm up your arsehole? good for you, the festival was amazing because security was lax.. good for you? tell me again, please i beg you.