The small sudan, parked on
the side of the parkway.
Empty and abandoned— slightly damaged
with dents and tree branch scratches.
Headlights pass by— slowing down
observing the cars' shambled disfigurement.
Curious for the passing moment.
The car, quiet like me—
slightly hurt— not enough to
raise any concern.
The seemingly trivial inflicted defacement,
disheveled my body and mind.
People are like passing headlights,
taking notice of my pain.
They ignore my suffering—
A reminder of their luck.
They don’t feel any sympathy—
not slowing because they care.
Slowing to guak at me,
to embrace their good fortune.
They use my surfaced scars,
to heal their own.
My mutilation— their passing time.