I sit alone at the counter, well past 2:00 A.M.. The waitress stopped filling my coffee half an hour ago. Maybe she noticed the shaking.
Maybe she misunderstood.
I keep drawing the sleeves up over my knuckles, trying to retain body heat. Trying not to touch anything but the one-too-many cigarette; that slow-burning cylinder of escapist nostalgia. I can't taste it anymore. I keep breathing out of habit.

People come and go, here and there. They keep their distance mostly, two or three stools down. I draw my shoulders in and focus on the surface of the counter when one gets too close.
I came here to be alone.

Mostly to remind myself of what I am not; of what I can never have. I prefer to be alone in public because it drives home the realization that I do not belong.
They come and go... here and there... busy.
Contrite.

I draw my shoulders in and drown the bitterness in bitterness; then drown that bitterness in caffeine and nicotine. Then I chase it with bitterness and promises I won't keep.

Because I would cut the throats of the innocent to undo it. I would destroy anything - everything - if it pleased you. But mistakes are never that simple to correct.
I draw the sleeves up over my knuckles and tell myself it will be different soon. I promise nothing will hurt you.
I promise I'll protect you - even if it's just from myself.