In my veins

are twisted streets, filth-filled alleys, a wreckage in the name of urban planning, the threat of bombs and blood and death, clear skies with no stars, excruciating summers with hours of no electricity. The face of  all that is deprived, and hopeless, and downtrodden. The stench of fish and sewerage, the musky smell of bodies in crowded bazaars, and dirty street-side food. The children and the disabled and the old, knocking on windows, begging and selling- begging for more than money, and selling more than flowers and tacky made-in China toys. Selling lives and blood and dreams.
In my veins are 4 am sunrises in a place that never went to sleep, waves crashing against hot sand, the feel of bug-infested grass under feet, skies in shades I will never find anywhere else, the vivid, nearly tangible threads of hope that clings- a whole life. And all the people who live in that universe that sprawls and sprawls and sprawls. That cruel, beautiful city- it's difficult to come from something that is more than around you.