Bar Floor

Ah, I finally get a little rest for a while.

It’s nice lying here on the cold, concrete floor. I’m tired of getting jostled and shaken and pawed at. Fingers wrapping around me, people taking off my cap. Just spending some time down here, next to the dribbles of urine, occasionally blessed with the company of a passing cockroach. I like it here. Here, people don’t waste what I have with futility and drivel and spiteful words that mean so little but can hurt so much. No string of badly rhyming prose, no piles of numbers stacked upon one another to the point that they actually have meaning.

Here on this floor that probably hasn’t been mopped for days, I don’t have to worry that I am probably more bacteria-ridden and pathogen-perpetuating than a dollar bill. Covered in the saliva and fingerprints of strangers. Lying here I don’t have little bits of me scraped away and left for dead like dog shit flaking off your pissed off neighbor’s shoe.

If I could just find a way to change my name, to change my face, to change my shape. Maybe then these people wouldn’t involve me in their ridiculous games. Their ego trips, their retarded witicisms. If my name weren’t Sharpie, would that make it stop?