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.