The quiet loneliness of my 20s was almost sacred when I think of how I worshipped Escape.
Stumbling into the happy hour,
Stumbling into the bar where I knew no one and acted like I didn’t care,
Stumbling into the show at Glasslands, at Union Pool, at Pianos, wanting to belong but unable to fully drip into the boxes set out,
Shiny flat sides, sharp corners discussing something,
Anything,
I guess.
Rooted in jeans too tight for my full hips that society told me were too big to be loved,
Sticking to me in a way that made me hate myself,
I hate him more but didn’t yell when he touched me.
Blacked out on the J train, the cat callers on Broadway never got a chance to rape me.
Bleached rooms not rotting in spite of so many years of blatant belligerence on their walls, band stickers, blow, and band managers getting handsy with the intern in the stairwell.
Back in my room, catching cold from the 70 degree sweat drying on me thanks to the window AC, I’m in a box anyway.
Not raped, or at least not the kind you think of.
Lost in the concrete, lost on the roach covered 6x6 patches of grass.
Sweet girl, the night may be dark, but there is a bliss in blindness, a horror in sight.
In the black, you find no one but yourself.
Glorious aloneness.
Silence of self.
I push my crown back on top of my head as I reach Roebling. Church.
Praying on a street corner never got anyone anywhere that they deserved.