Armitage

He washes his face
In the public cistern
A bloody scar
Across his cheek
A black eye
Adorns his gaze.
Rolls of white tissue
His only comfort
In this excruciating moment.
He blows hard
And a flash appears
Before his eyes.
Magic, graffitti
And the rank smell of piss
Getting on his nerves.
Spluttering
A choking trail of red
Runs down his nostrils
A steady pitter patter
On the tiled floor.
One mile away
A body lies in an alley
Bereft of all motion.

By Raymond Enisuoh

Got a story to tell? Operation Trident: Stop the Guns.
See:http://www.stoptheguns.org/