His face-
greasy and worn,
like fly-paper strips
melting in the sun.

When he gaped at me,
I felt his emotional scars.
They were as tangible,
as those on the back
of a whipped slave

There was a strange
familiarity about him,
breeding contempt.

His sunken, distant eyes,
bore the lives of a
thousand nobodies.

I didn't want to be
anywhere near him,
yet there I was.

Seeing myself in the
reflection of his glare,
suddenly I realized
that in his eyes,
I was the freak show.