Get your bag for the day.
Fill it with the essentials:  
Wallet Keys Phone Mace Pens Pocket-knife Lotion ID card Whistle Tampons.
Head out.
Double check that the door is locked.
Triple check. (Are you really sure?)
Walk to the subway.
Look at the sky. The sun is shining. (It always is.)
Look behind you. (Double check.)
Stroll. (But not too slow.)
Get to the station.
Swipe your card.
Drop a dollar in the guitar case of a performer.
Smile.
Avoid eye contact with anyone else.
Don’t smile.
Grip your bag. Tight.
Get off the train.
Walk up the stairs.
Walk into the street.
Look at the sky. The sun is still shining. (It always is.)

The restaurant is quiet, relatively, the one that
Maya told you about yesterday at lunch
She and her boyfriend mentioned “Three’s Company”—
No not the show—
And how we should go out there sometime
“Yeah, maybe we should”
You said because you don’t know how to say no

The lighting is warm, like an Olive Garden
But there’s a draft on your neck and your hands are cold because there is no one standing next to you
You wish you were there instead; even though this place looks nice, you don’t know if it actually is
And you start to feel the vibrations

Before you psych out and walk out, you sit down at a table and wait for an underpaid waitress—
There she is—
“Hello, my name is Elif and welcome to Three’s Company. What would you like to order?”
You spot her nametag—
“Excuse me, would you happen to be of Turkish descent?”
Her eyes light up—
“Wow, how’d you know that? Everyone just thinks I’m American.”
Remember, she has to be nice—
“I like exploring languages cultures. I find it fascinating that we’re all the same, yet so radically different in our own way.” This doesn't actually make sense, but it sounds interesting.
Her eyebrows dance. Cute—
“Well Mr. Philosopher, what can our establishment provide for you today?”
Quick, glance at the board—
“American Classic. No pickles”
“Coming right up!”

Her pen damages the atmosphere for a few moments, and then she’s gone
You almost feel like you’re human until you remember she’s underpaid to smile and small talk
And your hands start shaking again; look I’m sorry kid
I like you
But you’re not much company

carts rolling down the beaten up street
kids daring others to hide out in forgotten alleyways
bottles clinking inside musty bars
and you.
you are sitting around reading another novel, as usual, and finally reach the last page
you look up and stare at everything around you
this average looking city
but it isn't so average now that you see it all
its so much more than that
with its towers testing one another to see who can touch the clouds
the graffiti on the old brick walls of rundown buildings

and the love that you see everywhere
the memories
the joy
the heartbreak
this city has imprinted its signature into all of our hearts
this city has stamped itself onto you and now you don't want it to fade away
this city is your home.
filled with so much love
and so much hate, too
but isn't that life?

You are lying in bed,
Listening to the gentle whistle of passing cars,
And the roar of a passing train.

You bite your lip,
Nervous.
Why?
Because that is all you can hear.

A month ago, the sounds of the city outside
Would be accompanied by the screams and shouts
Of the two people downstairs
That brought you up.

Sure,
Sometimes they forgot dinner time.
Or that you hadn’t been bathed in three days.
And all they’d do at night
Was fight.

Insult after insult,
Tears and a piercing smash.
And you’d lay awake and wonder
What you’d find in pieces the next morning.

As much as you’d squeeze your eyes shut,
And bury your face in the pillow,
You couldn’t help but be lulled to sleep
By the turbulence below.

It was your familiarity.
And sometimes,
Familiarity comes in the cruellest forms.

And now
There is silence.

You can’t hear
Your Father chugging alcohol.
Silently sobbing
Under the stark, white kitchen light.

It takes two to fight.
And now there is only one.
And now you can’t sleep.
Because there is nothing familiar about this at all.