I am your pit stop.

I have always been a place,
Orphaned between your home and your destination,
A gas station next to the highway in the middle of nowhere,
Come barge in, I never lock the doors anyway,
I’m not a scary place, I’m married to your pit stop,
I am neither abandoned nor claimed,
My dirty tiles, your dusty boots, come on in,
Let your thirst do romance with my ever-full shelves of bottled water,
I will never run out of things, there aren’t enough people,
My walls won’t complain of your beer breath,
Nor will they mind your cigarette ash-ridden shirt,
Come inside like it’s your home, but one that doesn’t scold or talk back,
I have empty tables, I’ll serve you my limbs on new plastic plates,
Do not worry, I can always grow new parts,
I am yours,
Till the next person, next son or daughter comes into me,
You will leave before I can learn your last name,
The next one will always come after I forget you, though,
Consume this meat with your bare hands,
I won’t give you any knives or spoons,
I want to experience your hunger raw,
We’ll pray with our hands clasped together,
You will cry, laugh, and then ask me to kill you,
But I will take your sins and skins into my soft hands,
I will hold them like you’re my child,
I cannot heal you, but you tell me that I did anyway,
But I am achingly selfish, so I will steal something,
An organ from your personality,
I am assembling myself with pieces of everyone that goes through me,
I will steal anything—
Anything that I think will make me more likeable,
But you will canonize me a saint,
You will kiss my fingers like a lover,
But you will always leave me like how a storm always abandons the ocean,
But that is okay,
I have always been a place,
I am your pit stop.

Cal.

20:30 hours, Monday.