My pale face, complexion scares people. I walk alone, no one joins me. Red eyes aren’t there. Horns aren’t there. I’m not a monster. Up and down the streets, stares. I keep my hood up, hands in pocket. Just walk. Mutilated soul, not my fault. Lacerated heart, not my fault. Manhattan, so many people, revulsion. Take of the hood, they run. I come to a corner, she stops. She asks where my face is. I keep walking. She follows. She asks where my face is. I keep walking. She follows. I turn and stare. She isn’t afraid. She asks where my face is. I run. I run and run and run. No tears come, only sorrow. But I run. The warehouse is open. Inside I am. Back door is where I run. More Blood. I run again, down the streets. Stop for a second. Look around. She comes up from behind. No. She grabs the hood. No. She pulls the hood. No. She stops. I turn around. She screams. There’s nothing there.
August 2, 2008