On Washington Street

The ones on Washington Street watch me,
hollow smiles and cold dark eyes.
Shells of shells of shells of girls
don’t bother with disguise.

They hold their ground. I keep my pace.
Their rules I am yet unaware -
they’ve cast aside their perfect skins.
I can’t imagine what we share.

One morning as I’m walking home,
last night stained upon my skin,
I see myself in those dark eyes:
a boundary crossed, a veil too thin.

Somewhere someone didn’t play fair;
a faded girl, a broken doll.
We’re not so different, I think.
No, not so different at all.