gracefully i perch on the edge of the bus seat, 

so as to convey my feminine, my eyelashes. 

each time the doors open my posture rushes to fix itself, 

my fringe blown out by my hands running through it. 

when i'm most worn out, 

on the days when the world is dragging its feet,

when my joints tingle with pins and needles. 

to look pretty on the edge of a bus seat is a fufilling end to a forlorn day. 

gazing out the bus windows, 

while a blaring soundtrack of bowie gargles through my headphones,

my eyes wandering longingly at the blue, lonely sky.

are things made for the films i love, 

but not for me. 

the trip home is hardly tantilizing 

and i have no one to yearn for as i gaze out the bus window.

i simply assume that by looking beautiful, female, fresh, innocent, 

poised on the very slim edge of the carpeted bus seats,

that everything in the world is for me, and me alone.