Banter

At 6ish, Sunday mornings, my fingers always itch for the keyboard to spell out more than just head counts of the dead and redundant sound bytes our politicians make. This is a special time, when once in a whole week, I watch the sun break into orange skies above the cat-tails and pussy-willows on the barren airport ground. The grimy air lifts above the organic Tinkune squalor and the tall, whitewashed buildings with tainted windows, I call my second home, come into shape.
Here is where I've evolved from a girl with boy-short hair to a woman, walking out of a marriage into another uncertainty. There were all kinds of hair-cuts. There were girlfriends to die over. There were were men who reached for my soul across the fly-smitten canteen tables. Heart. Out and out and out, I've flung it at everyone who would have a take at it. Flaunting it and leaving it at their mercy. Women. Men. How much my vanity needs them. Lies. Duplication. The same love trying to make a comeback in a new form, for the sake of my selfish self.
Let me be a little selfless today. Let me love men and women today, for their sakes. Not mine.