sitting in a bar where i don't belong—

the drinks are weak, the well whiskey is Makers, and the patrons seem genetically superior.

instead of mingling,

i'm observing.

this menagerie of wealth—

packs of networking know-it-all alpha males

and medically-enhanced, contoured females ready for rut

all flinging shit.

There's a cafe au lait colored slash fading on my outer thigh.

I'll miss it when it's gone—for some reason.

Maybe because I've come to see it as a totem, a mark of my former self.

That scar, approximately 6 inches long, was not earned through valor and victory. There was no fight won, no accident survived, no surgery undergone.

Just me, too much whiskey, and a drunken attempt to climb the exposed pipes in my best friend's old apartment.

FACT: the more intoxicated they are, the harder they fall.

At the time, my life felt like a train wreck, a rogue barge about to plow into the docks, an average Jane with celebrity-grade drama.

When it happened, I didn't feel the pain of an impending nebula of a bruise. I didn't feel the pain of skin jaggedly cleaved by metal.

I only felt growing pains.

I am no longer that person, but I bare the ghosts and scars of her.

boredom.

No—this is deeper than that,

stronger, more debilitating.

ennui.

Yea, that's it.

That's the word I'm searching for as I lay in bed, nursing the last glass

of last night's wine

at high noon.

ennui.

The affliction that afflicts me,

the one that feels terminal because—

look at me, look at what I'm doing

nothing.

Because look at me—

look at the way my eyes glaze behind Coke bottle lenses,

behind consumable vices,

behind them all a mind that cannot rest

in a head that won't lift from the pillows.

ennui.

The ailment with the force of a mighty river thrown off its ancient course by men who thought they knew better.

and they wonder why it rebels

against the levees and canals

erected out of spite,

constructed to contain and manage.

My ennui spills over,

fills the stemware that I clumsily kiss,

carves into my psyche,

threatens to anchor me in dissatisfaction.

But I finish my nectar,

watch the glass shatter against the dirty tile,

and lift my head.

ennui.

Yea, that's it—that's the word I was looking for.

TRAFFIC

Counting the passing cars

empty beer cans

and regrets

like sheep—

hoping to fall asleep

so I can forget them all.

People can be peculiar beings,

Whom else other than our species

Have a tendency of being finicky

And if that's not the worst thing,

We give up or don't try with as much tenacity

When we attain what we dreamed of.

As if life is complete once the dreams are

achieved and the purpose of life is the

struggle, and obstacles that were put in the

path.

I say far more destructive than pure ignorance

is apathy.

A feeling of indifference, an attitude of who

cares?

An identity of sarcasm and banter that's

Competing with others' way of mocking.

Hello, Late Nights full of fallow commentary.

Anyway, my time is up and you're wondering

How this will end?

The funny thing is that it doesn't, this isn't

new and the Garden of Eden wasn't the story

about the inception of man but the deception

Of intellectual progress.

Tell me, 

Can your gloom ever bloom 

Or blossom in your doom 

While sitting in your smoking room

Blowing fumes, 

Growing branches needed to be pruned 

With medicines that's ready to exhume

Gloom repeating back and forth again,

It's hovering around the air like a perfume

Resume the playback that started it all,

It's time to reminisce memories in the storeroom

Now we're stuck in the waiting room, screaming for time to slow down and come back to the

Shipping room, packed and ready to roll out all the packages of broken dreams and shattered nightmares

It's almost there, it's almost time that we all can hear

You hear the click on the tock of the tick of the clock, it's starting to itch the addiction so you go to the break room, 

quick and ready to add some 

additives 

adding to 

addictive 

attitude

Give me some legroom, I'm starting to feel cramped up in this schoolroom

As a matter of a fact, I need to go to the backroom, there's a playroom with all of my costumes!

I'm accustomed to consume these mushrooms of fantasies, dreams and wonders

It's no wonder that 

I'm basically living a catchphrase 

"From Womb To Tomb"

My thighs stuck to the vinyl covered chair, jaw clenching against excitement and anticipation.

The artist wrapped a gloved hand around my arm and studied the fresh canvas I presented—bare skin reserved for him.

He sprayed a tonic on my eager flesh, a clear liquid that smelled like mint and took the anxious heat from my pores. With almost sensual gentleness, he wiped it away.

I watched him load the gun and felt my heart flutter when he fired it—the metallic hum filling my ears like a swarm of mechanical locusts.

Then I felt it.

The burn of the needle penetrating my pores, loading that once bland organ with his art. This physical discomfort comforted me as I relaxed into the pain, vibrations ricocheting against the bones beneath the black-lined manifestation flowing from his fingers and around my arm.

I closed my eyes and huffed the aroma of ink and friction and flesh. When it was over, I fought back tears. I didn't want it to end.

But now there was significance etched into me—a woman who felt so insignificant.

I'm addicted

To your contagious smile

And coffee-brown eyes

Your messed up hair

Paired with a few freckles

Here and there

Most addictions are bad for you

But yet they bring you happiness

In times of need

But you

You're good for me

And yet you cause me so much pain

If only you came back

Then I wouldn't be stuck here

Addicted to a memory