Fury Occupies Wall Street

And there comes the time that the reality you've been telling everyone, even yourself, becomes real. And it’s all so screwed up that people tell you it makes you appreciate life, because it doesn't. And suddenly, you’re ironing, and someone’s late to your house, and it all breaks.

And you run away, but you don’t know where you’re running; you just like the pain on the soles of your feet while you stomp wildly in no direction. And you ignore the crosswalk signs, half because your tears blind you and half because even if the sign says walk or don’t walk, no matter how much you try to follow the rules, life is still going to run you over with a bus.

And there’s no where private enough to scream your lungs out. To scream and scream and scream until nothing else can escape your hoarse throat. New York crowds even anger. There isn't enough space to throw a fit and it’s just too loud for God to hear when you wail, “It’s not fair!”

I want to squeeze something until it explodes, dig my nails into flesh until it bleeds, throw my dishes through my 11th story window and watch the glass shatter on the pavement.

And I’m wearing her shoes, because 1700 miles separate us, and there’s no other way to show that I care. And I’m wearing her shoes, because they remind me it hurts. It’s like pushing on a bruise over and over to remember the pain. I’m wearing her shoes because now, she’s still alive.

And the people in the street keep walking, and someone’s late for work. A vendor sells stolen perfume and lovers eat ice cream on a bench. The clock is ticking and everything is the same – the world is mocking me, pushing us closer and closer to the time.