Teens, Do You Like My Story?

Lets say that I live in a small apartment in my mind; what happens if I try to open a window and toxic gases invade my ignored and uncomfortable apartment? Do they send me into a perpetual, clear state of euphoria or make me pass out on the cold floor, scattered with used needles and give me brain damage? What will happen if they play with my mind? Will they leave it better or worse than before? Will they do anything but mess with my already fragile emotions? I can tell myself, but I can’t tell you; You have to guess for yourself. Just assume and tell me what you think.

Can you give me a blanket? I’ve left the small apartment; I got tired of the never-ending stench of counterfeit cigarettes and the wrinkly old man next door bringing home a new hooker or two, sometimes three, every night…Now I’m cold, and hungry, and I want a soft teddy bear to hold and shakily whisper to at night on the streets, while business men casually walk past me. Occasionally one takes a few coins from his pocket and drops them near my hand, and I quickly snatch them and don’t say a word. It’s OK, though; they don’t want me to say anything, or even give an appreciative look back; nothing is fine. Nothing is wanted in return.

I’m scared and no one wants to help me. I’ve been abandoned by people I’ve never known, the ones who knew me try to help, but I just run away and I find myself back at the small apartment. Why did I leave in the first place? The streets are no better, but maybe they make me feel more free in a strange, confusing way. It seems clear why, with the answer somewhere close, but I can’t find it; I must have hidden it a few years ago in the hopes of never losing it or having it stolen, but I became the thief I feared back then. And I fear me now. What have I done to everything I knew? The grassy, rose-scented dream fields are gone; they died and became the repugnant parking lot off to the left side of Smith Street. I don’t like that street; it ends where the gay parade starts, and I’m left lost there, too.
I’ve decided that it’s actually a poem.

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