Her heart is a gold pin and she crosses herself when the homeless walk past even though she is not religious. Her private world is a cave of thrifts and trinkets in an old apartment on the Eastside with vintage-paper walls just wide enough to live between.
She is weird in the way she loves how the city never sleeps, loves how dangerous the avenue is on humid nights, an ocean of drunken kids and oblivious middle-aged bitterness. And, when after only two drinks , the downers carry her in wobbly black boots back into a kitchen with brown bulbs and no one to visit, she keeps vigil for all the lonely stars with stale birthday cake and discount drugstore wine, the kind that numbs her teeth but heats her mind of memories that haunt her nights like the creepy, strange faces of the vintage actors at the Sunday Matinee.
On Fridays she pretends she’s someone else. Biting lips with strangers, allowing their unfamiliar hands to hiccup across her lower back in stuffy taxis, a futile expression to the cosmos that she no longer cares that greedy no-names of dance clubs and twilight dig into her skin like miners, each unfelt kiss a picket to shave her exterior at 3am when the alcohol loses its sting. Then fast-forward to a sticky 7am sharp where she stands naked searching the medicine cabinet for a way to keep breathing without the chest labor of memory.
On Sundays she finds a sad solace in the dead flowers of an abandoned courtyard below her crumbling balcony. She jumps the gutter, fingers the overgrowth of vines as if each prickly leaf were a lost child, wades puddles and cups rain into each palm like holy water while begging Buddha for enlightenment.
And on Monday she manages to zip her scars into a professional suit, chant a few verses of Gandhi while making the morning commute. She gives pocket change to the curbside beggars before clocking in, drinking imitation espresso from a moldy coffee pot and turning blocks of text into stories that mean nothing to her.
**I actually wrote this piece from people-watching, something I sometimes do for inspiration. I picked out a lady whom I thought was an interesting subject. She looked professional, sad, secretive, as if she were always looking for something. Then I applied my imagination to creating her story.
**Please don't forget to check out Pink.Girl.Ink. I know it's rather new and has taken a while to get things off the ground, but I post fun things, and a good poem, each week. Also am taking submissions to showcase poetry/writings and manuscripts. I will be publishing one of my own books under Pink.Girl.Ink Press soon. So if you are looking for a home for a manuscript, please consider us!