Saint Patty's Day in
Baltimore. The only place to be -- J. Patrick's. Can't breathe, can't move, can't hardly see the door. All jammed together, the faces are blended but fore one stands out in the crowd --
There is this girl. Could have snuck past the bouncer? She sips her bear like she is being watched. She knows that we know she is not "
of age".
True, it is hot. The swarms of people have raised the temperature in the room to 95 degrees.
But would you have worn a
tank top if you had recently
slit your wrists?
The puffy white scars on the front sides of her arms, I suppose, she can do nothing about. They will be there for years, a lifetime perhaps. But those long, red superficial scabs on the underside --
the belly -- of her arms.
They scream -- look at me -- I don't want to die, I want your attention. I desperately need your attention.
Desperation. In all its form. Is ugly, twisted, pathetic, so, so sad and pathetic.