World

I return to the scene of the crime.

My conquest.

My destruction.

Paris.

Tel Aviv.

London.

I lay out my sins like explanations.

I point.

Every illness must have an explanation.

Oh, were the world that simple!

I could explain myself away as though sugar icing, crumbling daintily on my birthday cake.

I’m here world, you’re here, whether we like it or not.

We’re stuck with each other, you and I.