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By Kelly

…she’s a bright girl. Lucky her. With age comes mediocrity, which is less than or equal to zero. Surrounded by tools yet nauseatingly unsure of how her hands work. Praying to god, to any god or godlike “thing” that she won’t live out her days surrounded by filth in clothes that don’t quite fit. Because like “god”, she is able to create, and yet there is no place for her. She tries so hard to give joy, yet little is actually tossed her way. And why? Those most worthy of love are least likely to be brought joy by it. Or so she’s heard. It’d be much easier to just be a bitch, because quite frankly you never see an unhappy bitch (mind you, there are many ugly ones). This is aggravating. So is having an itch on the bottom of your foot when it is clearly neither the time nor place to be removing footwear. Everyone chooses a different lens upon closer viewing of the specimen. Those to the right ask who the hell she is, while those on the left tell her she can do anything, just don’t take any risks. A soul much too old, with so many consciences that they drown each other out. Wondering if she’s even on the right road (high as opposed to low). It gets fuzzy. She’s smart enough to know that what she wants, and what’s best for her are independent of each other. And that comfort is warm. Freedom is numbing. She stops. Everything’s all right, save the area between her neck and scalp, which presently serves as a dumping ground to those surrounding her. Standing on the hub of a wheel on a bike she once had and loved, looking at each spoke, alone, wondering it’s just too damn tiring. With childish needs at a time when honesty and maturity bring with them shit. Food, water, lego, free time and someone neat to play with. Is that too much to ask, really? Oh yeah, and a couple of aspirins. Pigeonholed and shit outta luck. All things considered, at present time the only form of solace is sleep, and the maddening hope for pleasant dreams…


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