I Get Off a Stop Early

and walk down the block

so the bus driver

can’t tell where

I’m headed.

There’s no way

anyone saw me

that night, still

my heart’s pounding

like the hip-hop beat

thumping out of

the door when I

push it open.

          “Welcome. Can I help you?”

That girl, Angel, is sitting behind a little table

and she doesn’t seem

to recognize me at all.

I breathe, but don’t know where to begin.

“I … I’m just curious

about your programs,” I finally say.

God, I sound stupid.

She hands me a brochure

and an intake survey.

“Thanks.” I start to turn away.

                    “You want a tour?”

I shrug okay.

But I’m holding my breath again.

Light purple paint

covers the walls

of the common room.

Sofas and chairs

a big-screen TV

some gaming controllers.

Right now

there’s a guy in tight black jeans

doing DDR

while another guy,

in a thrift-store business jacket,

cheers him on.

Two kids about my age,

looking totally feminine

but a little … slutty,

lounge on one of the sofas.

                                “Girl, you so bad!”

                                one says, giggling.

                                He/she’s painting

                                the other one’s nails.

                                “Now hold still!”

I exhale,

breathe in

the smells of

nail polish,

hair spray,

and Axe.

The two on the sofa

wear thick makeup

eyes ringed with black liner.

A girl comes in,

taps Business Jacket

on the shoulder.

They both squeal

as if it’s been ten years

since they’ve seen each other.

I don’t think this is the place for me.

I fold up the papers

Angel handed me,

get ready to leave.

I just can’t imagine

drawing attention                to myself

the way

they do.

Whatever else I am

I’m not

a flashy person.

And I wonder

if this is

how

I’d end up

looking.

Who

I’d end up

being.

Willows is

not my space

not my thing.

No help

for me

here.

There’s bile in disappointment.