Grease Paint and Red Noses

Life is something the living often overlook. That's the clinical me, not the poetic. That's the girl with not enough stories and too many friends. That's the woman who want to be alone, but not for the reasons she is.

Life is a measure. Of breath. And pulse. And skin. A flash on a monitor. People give it essence. If they can. Maybe I just want to die. Or in other words, have never wanted to live. Don't see the point. Kissing happiness's ass only to be covered in its shit.

Wrong or right is irrelevant. You're all dead.

Some of us just tend to notice.

The trap door in the tiny car that lets all those clowns come out. Like so many men I can't remember now.