there's a reason why our magnetic fields have become so distant
it wasn't because the trigger was pressed too hard against my soft
temple, it was written in the stars that change is the only constant
and hope is only for beginners and i've been dipped too far into
the creasefolds of your fragile complexity of the book you're busy
writing, and i know you want to rip me out of those pages, i am
the aftermath of a broken shield that i didn't know was ripe enough
for others to dig into, but i can never get you completely out of my system,
like a hidden computer virus that i never really meant to obtain, it just
all started almost like a big bang, with a shotgun mouth and these weak
limbs that pulls it's own weight, i didn't mean to push my luck so far

We work our fingers to the bone
For a pitiful paycheck.
Our clothes smell of chlorine and bleach.
We stay up all hours to study.
Our futures are bought with our sweat.
Women like us don't wait around.

No time to be idealistic.
Sure, we dream of a better life.
But we're not afraid of the means
To our ends.
Women like us have ***** hands.

My sister loved sunflowers.

Anything worth loving in me died in a ditch behind a trailer park in northern Wisconsin. I’ve never been one much for talking. But I think I’d like to say something. I am all nerve endings. Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. How dare you look at me? Keep your money, I come here to be lonely and broke. That is the whole point of me, you know. I’m like some sort of plot device the author chose to show how lost the human soul can be. I’m supposed to die horribly to teach you that life is short and beautiful or some ******* like that.

My niece liked pie. Not just any pie.
Pumpkin pie.

I could go on this whole speech  about how you don’t know me. But I’m probably just as ridiculous as I seem. A stereotype confirmed. Go tell your friends you’ve found Waldo in the wild. It probably won’t happen again.

My mother collected angel statues.

No, I wouldn’t change anything.  I’ve tried so hard to fix the people in my life. To fix myself. But my hell has made me complacent and I just don’t give a **** anymore. Spite is the only thing keeping me alive. Spite and Jack Daniels.

You know, I used to like to sing. Isn’t that interesting?

The lonely little girl in me
Wants to hug the scared little boy in you
Until you stop being scared and I stop being lonely.

But this is a grocery store.
And you are a stranger buying cauliflower.

Complex PTSD made even more complex by frequent bouts of mild psychosis.
Neurosis.
Impulsivity.
Mood swings.
Suicidal tendencies.
Inconsistent personality.
Writing uncontrollably.
Questionable hygiene.
Obsessive pineapple eating.
Veganism.
Atheism.
Humanism.
And I have a horrible sense of direction.

Wait,
What was the question?

I left at first light.
Packed my bags for the 23rd time.
(Or was it the 24th?
I've lost count.)
I went south,
To a sad little factory town
Where I spent part of my adolescence.  

I thought it would be interesting to see if
The townies still remembered me.
If their *****-soaked brains had
Retained the memory of the strange
Little homeless girl with crooked hips.  

I have changed quite a bit.

And I've just seen the medicine man,
He knows who I am.
I saw the fear in his eyes when he came in.

To him I am
A ghostly amalgam
Of memory and imagination.

A dream.
A nightmare.
Something he never thought he'd see again.
He walks right by me without a second glance.

I let him pass.

I only exist in the rear view.
Just a minor case of déjà vu.

Restlessness,
My oldest friend
Pulls me from my bed.
3am.
A lonely pilgrim searching
For a holy land.

Finding nothing but
The light of dying stars.