Food Court Press

Recoiling in despair, I sit surrounded by talking bodies and cooked flesh…the turmoil in my soul drowned out by the teenaged riot at the next table.

Old faces munching on sustenance, young babies crying out for more. My heart remains caught in a vacuum, stuck in a perpetual state of withdrawal.

Only my soul knows the location of the key to unlock this monstrous gate.

Caught in the crossfire, anyone who comes to know me now is destined to forget, as I have. No longer do I pulse with energy, now I simply exist…like a zombie in a forest clearing, staring at all sides with nowhere to go. Delight at my circumstance…as I dance a jig with the demon himself. He hovers over me like a swarm of magnets.

Alone, I am but a conduit for empty feelings and thoughts. In person, I am a cool ghost wrapped in a cloak of petulance and broken glass…stay away! radiates from me like a sonar signal, indecipherable to the naked ear…but felt nevertheless.

Nevermind...

While angry hordes of young ego’s scream for attention loud and proud, they voice their being with foul lips and twisted ball caps…big coats and heavy chains. Decoration or protection? Everyone wants to stand out the same. All striving for the perfect balance of cool and right. Oh how we all want to be right.

Something will come. Nervous insides twist and curl up into a bitter ball in my chest. A pulsating core. Tired arms, tired eyes, tired heart…sleep won’t save me now. I’m as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been, but I feel right at home…alone on my plastic island.