The Best Little Rebel There Was.

I set down my glass,  
I butt out my joint,  
run my fingers through matted hair,  
and prepare to make my point.  
   
The one good thing I own,  
keeping me and Daddy together,  
I slide over my buzzing head,  
following a faded jacket of leather.  
   
I march the floor to the building,  
damning myself for showing.  
Walking up, I trip, but make it.  
I pretend inside I’m glowing.  
   
Still, I grab the knocker,  
and make my presence known.  
Cursing myself silently,  
just praying nobody’s home.  
   
Of course I am greeted by every soul  
who could possibly be in.  
They stare at me like trash,  
with plastic Cheshire grins.  
   
Anyone who has ever been out of place,  
could understand the horror  
of strutting in, eyeliner smeared,  
upon a spotless glass floor.  
   
They stare down their noses,  
all twenty-four eyes.  
Leading me into a room,  
to spectate my demise.  
   
I know what they want,  
so I push up my sleeve.  
All the ninety-eight lacerations  
they’d never try to grieve.  
   
I tell them why it happened,  
exactly what drove me to it.  
Not even one eye bats,  
they think they see through it.  
   
One lamp is pushed over,  
as I walk back out.  
It’s inexorably off my chest,  
I can finally sign out.