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Thursday, September 2nd, 2010 11:37 pm
Standing, late at night, under the street lamp on the corner,
She wonders, if she could somehow talk to herself back then,
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her

In any way that was better than the words of the woman who'd borne her,
That everything isn't always as easy as it was when you were ten?
Standing, late at night, under the street lamp on the corner,

Casting about in the dark and wondering if anyone would mourn her,
She takes a moment to think about the lonely places she's been.
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her

That the pain of the needle as it injects the brilliant inks that adorn her
Will feel like the artist's fingers on her breast in memory when
She's standing late at night under the street lamp on the corner.

She knows they're stupid as sheep; how ironic that they have shorn her
Of whatever warmed her insides. It's almost like something from Zen.
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her

How easy it was to find herself alone and lost and forlorn, her
Penance for ever having had a thing to do with men.
What should she say to that girl? How could she possibly warn her
About standing late at night under the street lamp on the corner?