Ind. Piece.

I haven't had a chance to type up and post my in-class work, and I won't be home all weekend. Instead, I thought I'd post something I wrote outside of class.

(Untitled)

I feel like a victim in this dress
With tender, fragile tufts and frills
Leering men behind cigar smoke
Tap their ashes and look on.
I feel ashen,
And embarrassed under their gaze.
As I walk home late afternoon
I see a man huddled at the foot of a hill,
In an abandoned park
With only trees to converse with,
But he isn't up for talking, anyway.
Sunlight glints off something in his hand
And I notice he's crying.
The tears also shine in the sun.
I've almost passed the park when he lifts the something to his head;
A click
And a boom
And I no longer feel like a victim.