Compassion in Vodka Glasses

On the prowl. For moments to use me. Put me on inside out like soiled panties. Filthy mistakes still clinging to their ass like the toilet paper from public bathrooms.

It's fair enough. Don't you think? Just that we knew each other. For that one second when we were both so tired. So wasted. Cobbled stones falling into their holes. Part sidewalk. Part highway. Engines grinding as their oil leaks. Going everywhere and no place. Because destinations are for suckers and people who might someday actually get there. Wherever it is we think we want to be.

Like all the pretty flowers in the field. Kissing the ass of the sun. They all die too. Nut just not us.

Not just me.

It's just a dollhouse full of tiny plastic people. Carefully contrived ethnocentric families. The baby in the cradle. The momma in the kitchen. They never grow up. Never get older. Never ache for things beyond their molded finger's reach. They are what they have. And what we want them to be. Like everyone we try to pose. Dare to touch. Imagine owning.

Making their little beds as if those small rooms will grow to fit all the things we need to put in them.

I'm always fooled by the working lights. The recorded sound. Dollhouses everywhere. Full of people still bigger than me.

I talk to myself so much. Drink after drink becoming the friends I can't seem to keep.