92. Innocence

I crouch on the floor,
Sun blazing,
Vision shifting
As if angered by my weakness.
Such accusations!
My mind runs in circles.

Short skirt
So very impractical
But so very grown-up
Burning skin
A disheveled vampire's white
That fades to a permanent blush.

I get up, continuing my little walk of the day
That seems to become a journey
Then a quest
Then a forced march
Until I enter the cool solitude of my home.

I shut the door
Sitting down carefully,
Bruised in the soul.

And I look down at my hands
And the anger flares up
All over again, my brain set in overdrive.

My tattered flag.

The flag named innocence.

It is little more
Than a scrap of what could never be.