Isolated

I am a little ashamed. I am this litter. Dropped as if something distressing to be seen and set alight by the elements.

People stare at me as if they know I am not human. I rush to them and they move away or stand in my way so that I may cause a stir.

Their leisurely manner in the stores and then outside at the bus stops mark me they masking their feelings of uncouth curiosity.

This is a disaster for me. I feel I am unable to source the reason.

The reason has many uniformity of form. I am an outcast there is nothing to say the speak and then there was not much to be. I am an outcast I am that worse woman fallen not so.

The British and most people prefer if one is a whore rather than a cook.

I am cast out someone speaks and laughs at me speaking on the phone and then giggling for the phone.

Sparking the oddly familiar that I am her contempt and that she is contagious. Rumors spread like wildfires and then settle on me.

I am not behaving in the normal manner and to seek my fortune I must spread like margarine. And behaving in a bad way.

I do not mean to be a mere spitfire I have many nice qualities but when the Brits have their fight cut out to subdue someone they want to be ousted because a rich and powerful gentleman and ladies did not have a vagina.

Rich men and women pay good money for that sort of thing. Then they can be sour pusses.

The gallantry goes out of the window and they become the lager louts. Drink is their demon. They had been. I behaved very well. I told them all no and they sat down and warred.

I am not eventually totally non-pulsed even if the cashier says the card did not get accepted, try the PIN. I do as suggested and realize that there is a different pin position. I merely gloomily continue as if the whole thing is a joke.

Pin means money.

I am not going to be a victim and die like most mad or disabled people we are told we are a drain on society when we were in the hospital draining in the privacy of hell.

"Out."

"In the street so many like you,"

They thought we were sorted. We are now outside behaving oddly. They just stare as if they have never seen a mad woman before.

I was trying to explain not mad but with a disability.

A drain on society and there is nothing less than an embarrassment. I am society’s wholesome person a reason why charities were chartered and made most of.

The rich now want to ditch us all into some leveling as if the basket cases have got beyond themselves. I am not in hospital I have been and now deserve to shop unsolicited by spite and shit and whatnot.

We are just as much part of society as the rest of them. We are the rest of the spoils as we live as we will die we are the weaker we are nothing to dine with but our tears and grief.

We are not happier than when we are not spoiling and the crowd is not following. Mobsters as if sussing the situation ready to attack.

We are reading to judge if we made a mistake and laugh at us laugh at me.

I am not grieving anymore there is nothing left but to tell them all what to do with this abuse from well-fed females following and saying that we are sick and tired of spongers like me.

I cooked and cooked until the whole of the food tasted nasty. Now the cook is fired and then fired again we all love to sparkle and do something.

We believe you all to talk to speak and to seek whatever is inside me must say some words that they love me too. I am not like the shiny and drunk on life I am not someone well and able I am something not like you all but someone damaged.

Nothing is as it seems when people die unloved without success in their lives one is seeing the whole story. The story is not nice whenever this is the feeling I wondered as the woman at the bus stop started to say embezzled all the money. I speak as if answering her.

“Where did the money go? Who has the money?” I look at my mittens and speak to myself in an inner dialogue about what matters.

What does matter is them.

Their opinions and options and why they are so angry with me.

I am wearing a coat I purchased four years ago and there is paint on the damn thing.

My gloves are not nice they are nasty they need to be made new. They are warm enough and worn enough as the years did not mean a thing.

My hands are a match as the years have taken its toll.

"She has got above herself."

Bills are here and here and there and this is the total in a month.

“A moment add it up again,”

“Another moment this time there is more to pay,”

The streets are moving as men and women speak in corners as if they have no homes to get to as if the warm buses have made them hopelessly inadequate to see that reason must accompany them.

Was that man nodding and shaking himself on the front seat a man who deserved to be in or out?

“In here or in their walls are the place for you,”

“I am without power,”

“I can’t do anything or anyone any good anymore.”

“Why?”

“I am with no power,”