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An orphan of her own doing, she frequents the nightclub scene
Completely her own person, possibly pumped up on heroin.  
I try to make conversation but she doesn’t know me
She is speaking with her angels, needs no people at all
Smiles condescendingly at me, and I fade off 
Understanding she is not sharing her pain
Keeping it safe, hidden under a smile I barely recognize.

She is goth-like in appearance, black make up decorates her eyes,
not wanting to stand out or be noticed; 
I am unsure why she is here at all.
I see her talking to her spirit guides; and I admire her.
She is her own person, needing none of us.
If we disappeared it would not be noticed.
She is an orphan of her own making.
Keeping her pain hidden under that hesitant smile.

Her superstitious nature wears a rabbit foot in her pocket.
A plethora of various religious symbols around her neck.
I wonder if her angels are from Egyptian mythology?
Are they Christian, Buddha or Mohamed-led?
I approach her but dare not ask.
Her smile stops me.
I am dead to her.
We all are.
An orphan by choice.

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