She sits on a pastel couch,
legs crossed, reading voices and listening
to the end of the world on CD. Like
any human, thoughts move through
her brain but she doesn't care. She's
going to a new – alternative – school
on Friday, and is ashamed? "But who
gives a damn?" she mutters, and
continues to sit there, listening to her
boys babble and yell and scream
about that world ending. And perhaps
in her heart there are a few
fires burning – this isn't the first
time she's been scorned. It's not
that she's not pretty, though she
definetly wouldn't win no beauty
contest, and it's not like she's
not fun to be around – but
that she picks the
wrong ones. Her judgement screwed and
bent, nearly broken. So there
she sits on that little loveseat,
the space she does not occupy filled
with books of letters and things,
CD cases and players, pencil and eraser,
as she thinks – no, contemplates –
that end of the world.