The bus ride

The doors open, a squeaky symphony of rubber, like the sound of wind chimes. I step up, finding myself in a crowded room filled with seats and people and baggage. As I find a seat, a young woman puts down her bag and falls asleep. The bag hits the metal seat, ringing out like a lion's roar. I try to move the bag, but it just gives me a cheesy grin and doesn't budge. Finally, turning my nose up in disgust, like a skyscraper towers over a bug, I walked away. I hear the whispers of passengers, like the wisps of cigarette smoke that passes my lips, soft and silent. And like the smell of foul food, I realize I missed my stop. Surrounded by sour smelling glass and dead rats, I find myself in the dark. Unwanted, alone, intoxicated. Unloved and in the belly of the beast.