Dystopia doesn’t change who we are, but this is nothing to find comfort in.
When war calls you as a soldier, you’re still a son or a daughter. A mother, father, lover, friend. At least inside, while on the outside, you die a gray face feared and forgotten.
When plague locks you away, you’re still feeling lonely. You wake up with thoughts in mind that yearn to be shared and skin that aches to be touched. Although you suffocate unnoticed.
When the mind that cared for you and the heart that loved you collapses, you’re still there. Maybe you’ve had a first step to make, or you’ve turned a year older. You might have been wonderful to marry or simply had your arms stretched out to someone. But Dystopia is a veil that swallows you whole, while your shape still casts a shadow on the world.
“Is that why you’re so salty?”, my witch mocks me over our shared Iced Latte, and I blush.
Mistress witch writes 