Writing on Flower Petals

Yes, I've been here for a long time. This cafe is too small, my hands are too big, my shoulders are too broad, I am Alice in this small cafe I grow, I shrink, I wonder when it's my turn to drown. "Melissa, dear, please have some more." No, this coffee makes me short and big, fat and yellow, but I swallow it down to be polite; I swallow it so I can close my eyes and think just for a second. Am I doing this right? Am I doing life right? I lick my lips and thirst, but not for coffee,

but for more water, less tears, and more happiness.

This all happens in three minutes, three minutes that I have wasted waiting at that cafe table in that small cafe room, plucking off wilted flower petals, and writing my message to the world. "If you are not happy, make someone else happy." Oh, if only I took my own advice.

I think to myself, why am I here? Not in this world, but the place I hate the most? I stare into the wall then  through translucent faces. I gaze into translucent souls and wonder if the comfort that I did feel was still even in anyone's exsistence.

Will anyone read my flower petals? I cry and scream, but no one will read. But the thought that breaks me,

"Maybe I should read it myself."