she takes the buss home
she bares it
the buss ride
but its boiles her internals
that she must do the same routine things
of opening the door
and sitting down
as if what she was a few months ago
is what she is now.
it is counter productive
it is pestilence to the mind
it is goddamn pointless
to embrace propriety
to wear it like a cloth
to be
what is
and not what might.
all the books she use to love
they bore her now
bore her
and now whatever that was or may be
has grown and morphed into nothing
she cannot open the door
sit on the metal bench
when she doesn't understand
why she's doing so.
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