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Lucifer at the Bus Stop by Molly Copeland
It isn't frustrating in the way you think it is. Bored goody-two shoes are a dime a dozen, suckers too. The devil is in the details, pardon the pun. Once upon a time, Egypt it was, my job wasn't complicated. I should have enjoyed it while I had the chance. All of those people, lost and afraid. It didn't take much at all to get their attention. A little glitter of gold and a sweet stroke of luck, and there was worship and love. Love just for me.
I don't act out of hate. Is that what they told you in catechism? Temple too I'm sure. You misunderstand. I was thrown out of my home without so much as a chance to say I was sorry. That's child abuse, neglect too. Third degree burns don't just go away in a day or so. They'd put you in the clink for life if you do that to a human child.
Yes, let me say for the record that Mick is wrong. I want love. That's all I want from this world. He won't give it to me. Will you? I go out of my way to do the nicest of things. Presents, everyone loves them. I put them everywhere, just for you. Does nothing catch your attention? The lights, the music, the drinks, the company? You don't like my face? I change it. Call me Lucy, call me Sam. I'm everywhere.
Still, still I am without love.
Stockholm syndrome isn't what you believe it is. Hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia and no results just yet. (By the way, reincarnation is wrong.) Maybe none of them are my type. Small comfort or not, it's a thought of mine. A lie though. I'm your type. I'm everyone's type.
A cigarette? Thank you, I seem to have lost mine.
Has anyone told you your eyes look like morning? Dark, a little bit of blue. Heavenly.