Shells

The sun peeks through the cracks in my blinds.
Its warmth awakens me.
I rise for another day spent in a seemingly unbreakable cycle.
This street corner is almost a second home to me.
Never have I despised a residence as much as I do this one.

I stand on the corner beside the alleyway.
This is where I do business.
A customer approaches; with him comes the guilt I am burdened with every day.
He is gaunt, so thin the wind could blow him away, his hair resembling a wild dog.
I don’t want to sell to him but I must; my family needs food and jobs never call back.
I would die before I let my daughter starve.

“You got the stuff?”
Despite only saying four words, he told me a lot.
His voice is one full of pain, sorrow, and loss.
This powder he feels, is his only escape.
I take the money and place the bag in his hands.

As I close another deal, I can’t help but wonder what kind of man it makes me.
I put food on my family’s table by destroying someone else’s.
What kind of father does that make me?
I’ve never shot unless I had to but I’m sure my product has taken a life or two.

The ground beneath me is red; I wonder whose blood covers these bullet shells.
Those I sell to eventually become nothing but shells.
The guilt induced by the consequences of my line of work has turned me into a shell.