The Book Store

People swarm the book table like flies on human feces. I can't believe this is happening.They don't even know it's me. I wonder what would happen if they knew. I grab a book for myself, determined to steal it. I figure I can steal a book if it happens to be about myself. At first, when I read that someone wrote a book about me, I didn't believe the news. No one ever told me they were going to write a seven and fifty page biography about my life. I'm only sixteen.

"Stand Clear of the Closing Doors"

On the subway, I saw another homeless person. She looked Native American, her belongings were stuffed in boxes, and by the smell I knew she hadn't showered for over a week. She sat alone. People stared at her, myself numbered among them. Looking at her skin, she seemed like some kind of leper. Formidable wounds dug out patches of her tan skin. The subway wound through the tunnels like a snake and then it suddenly bursted out onto the train platform. The brakes pierced my ears as the silver doors slid open before the train stopped. Suddenly, I saw the leper rest one of her belongings right before the doors, kicking it out onto into the station. No one looks. No one cares. New Yorkers here are used to it. But then I look at her stuff, not wanting to understand the full reality, wanting to remain ignorant: she only had a few belongings left.