I Shouldn’t Have Come Here

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 I compliment the dress code, it’s nice to have fashion officiated by colorful wanderers. I mean her eyebrows are painted like peacock feathers, when he inhales the rainbow painted on his pectorals flexes inward trembles for a moment and bursts like a sparkler ignited. I guess I’m sorry for attending. No. Really. Tourists are abound, in the parking-lot stationed inside spaces, in the kitchen watching waffle batter drip from an ice cream scoop, the chef calls ‘em ‘Waffle Cupcakes.’ I think they taste like vegetable oil labeled as butter. I know. No one invited me here thus I shouldn’t complain, but opinions originate quicker than the opinion to remain silent. I attended in a sense, but I won’t remain. I guess I wanted to hear that I am here. That I was invited. That I share color too beyond the spectrum presented on Plain-White-Ts. When I flex my chest hairs rise and appear as confused as the owner’s bland eyebrows. I present this gesture to be examined. Oh. Yeah. I shouldn’t have come here. I know where customers sleep in-doors. I know where the animal shelter volunteers hand out free kittens on Saturday (it’s not where you’d suspect). They consider me a frequent visitor, a looky-loo. I consider them acquaintances and friends when I am feeling lucky. Okay. This is fingers maneuvering to symbolize goodbye. This is eye sockets void of character wincing at light and order. This is me begging to stay. This is me begging to stay. Now. This is me begging.

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