‘We should pray for her and.. maybe,

call the police?

Her. She.

Me.

I, with the haircut that screams ‘mental illness’ and those American Psycho eyes – the inexplicable urban sadness –

I am the Divine Lorraine Hotel, the one on Broad and Ridge – before the renovation and gentrification; even broken crayons still draw,

Black souled and bitter, I bellow to the wind;

‘I am a magical fucking woman, don’t you dare forget it’.

Four wheels and a trunk stuffed with dreams and night terrors is all I ever needed to leave everything behind, over and over and over again..

Untamed. Unsettled. Unconquered.

Wild.

But somehow, never free.