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This will be my fourth night here

watching the idots come and go.

There's a 20 minute line

for over-priced crapuccino

while I've made do with the

79 cent bottomless cup of

regular joe for 72 hours already.

At first i thought someone would rescue me,

secondly I thought maybe I was already rescued, just being here

thirdly I began to think maybe I wasn't worth rescuing

and tonight I just don't care.

The same people are here that have been here all week.

-I'm homeless, what's their excuse?-

I wonder if they've noticed me back here

or if I'm just part of the scenery now.

I guess that's what they've become for me though.

Waiting in line they would tell you they like your "style"

and say things like "It's been soooo long!"

and "so how have you been?"

as if they wanted and expected any answer but "fine, and you?"

It's a circus when they sit down for "deeper" conversation.

-who's got a story for center ring, to pass around some lie, something?-

(that dark-haired stranger, that handsome prince, that true love never walks through the door, like he does in my mind)

In this summer of deprevity

it is fashionable to be screwed up.

This place is like a screw-magnet....

They gather to tell their stories

to compete for the pity prize for having lived the worst life,

for that night anyway....

It's funny, in a sick kind of way,

that their trauma is fabricated,

and that being beaten and spanked, hit and kicked, starved and punished, molested and neglected...

being homeless, being strung out, being raped...

that these things are what makes someone cool now.

believe me, if it's bad, and if it could gain a person some false-condolence

then the paintings on the walls have heard enough.

(where is my doe-eyed stranger, the one that's supposed to come rescue me, why doesn't he ever show up)

The only reason humans interact

is to feel better about ourselves,

whether it to feel safe or feel cool.

And I'm no better...

here I sit way back in the corner,

in the coveted velvet throne of a chair

being all myserious and existential in my black and blood colored skirts

and my golden tresses hiding my eyes, imagining a crown of thorns on my head....

Because if I told them my story, my truths,

they would indeed call me God.

(he just never walks in, that's my problem...)

Always remember to quit while you're ahead.

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