This Place

This place is stifling.
The stench of death hangs opaque in the air, barely covered up by the aroma of the women's casseroles and the men's rubber boots.

This place is where women's dreams come to die.
Where they are left with burdens they can't help but love.
Where their aspirations turn to apparition with the soreness of their swollen breasts and the knitting of little blue blankets.
All the while men sit around filling their bellies and pondering how great life could be if only the rain would let up.

This place comes with a guilt you'll never shake.
Because once your cheeks have been kissed by the mouths, each one covered with lipstick or tobacco, you're guilty.
You're guilty because they can't understand why you'd ever want to leave.

You're guilty because when you look into each face - with the same cloudy eyes - you can't understand why they'd ever want to stay.