This morning, a little girl sat with me on the bus with her eleven year old eyes, creased
Her hair was not the color of the sun, it was the color of wheat, thrown into a quick ponytail

She did not smell lovely, as a girl should
She smelled stale of:
Morning breath, alcohol, old clothes

And I couldn't help but to think what her mother and father did as she got ready for school today

I remembered at five I had no father to help me dress and my mother was at work for too many hours to count and my babysitter danced on a pole at midnight
She did not want to wake in the mornings

I remembered at seven I had no father to help me dress and my mother was at work for too many hours to count and my babysitter put her fingers in holes they didn't belong
She did not pay for it

I remembered at eight I had no father to help me dress and my mother was sad for too many hours to count and I had no babysitter, as I had no house

I remembered that summer I had a father to help me dress and my mother was always at home and I had no babysitter because I had a mother and father

I remembered at fifteen I didn't need a father to help me dress nor a mother all I needed was drugs and alcohol and the courage to take my own life, and I tried

I remembered at almost seventeen I didn't need a father to help me dress nor a mother, what I needed was saving
And they tried like hell, but inevitably I am a lost cause

Oh god, I hope like hell her mother and father were just running a bit late this morning

~

My heart is the poet,
*I am merely its scribe

On a polished oak desk
Wrapped in a thin dust-jacket
Lies an unused pen,
A blank sheet of paper,
And an empty pack of cigarettes.

I used to think that if these things could breathe, they would be loneliness personified.

But that's wrong.
If they lived, they wouldn't be lonely at all.