by Francine DuBois
everyone here is needy,
as if they all got torn up
by the same tequila-faced man
with a different name each day.
i don't know if they actually talk,
but they gather behind restaurants
and look longingly into each other's cars,
each depicting the ultimate escape
into someone else's life. they remain
convinced that no one hurts like they do,
and no one hurts as much.
they view strangers with guilty eyes,
knowing as they do that they are just
basting themselves in pity, nursing
their wounds with bandages of murmured
"i know, honey. i've been there."
Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's
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