‘We should pray for her and.. maybe,
call the police?
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.
But somehow, never free.