Corner of 6th and Congress. She waits for the bus like she waits for love. She knows it's coming but she's early; her faith rides on it, but it's just taking her to another destination. She just wants somebody to walk next to, somebody to share a seat with. So she settles; she gives it away hoping in time her love will be returned. But she knows it never will. She's battered and scarred; they left holes in her fragile heart. Some days she feels like she's all fragments held together by children's glue, an amalgamation of cheap love and insecurity, hopes and dreams and wishes on stars. She's waiting for the day she'll be healed, waiting for the next boy to come fix her.
The bus comes, but no number of quarters will take her to her happily ever after. So she drops in her change and slides into her usual seat, looks out the same window and watches the familiar buildings rush by. The city never changes.
But she's different this time. At least she feels different. Is she really different?
The all-too-common tornado of thoughts inside her head rages, but she silences it. Looks down at the cheap, tarnished heart bracelet her last last boyfriend-savior gave her and pulls it away from her wrist until it breaks. Until she breaks. Closing her eyes and breathing in deeply, she touches the inside of her wrist, feels her heartbeat pulsing, pumping blood to and from her hands, fingers. Slowly she opens her eyes again and sees the same world; she sits in her usual seat, looks out the same window and watches the familiar buildings rush by. The city never changes.
But she's free.
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