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She ran like the devils of hell were chasing her. Her tennis shoes slapped the wet pavement, breath rasped. Angela kept her head up, eyes searching for anything open this time of night. Any place she could duck into with lights and people. Behind her, the street looked empty. Just another rainy night in the bay. Dead leaves clogged the gutters, their colors dull in the dim light. At the next intersection, the girl skidded to a stop. To the left, she saw the glow of neon lights and heard faint music. Angela didn't need to think about it. She turned and ran for the club. The sign out front spelled the name Torchies in bright red. Various beer signs hung in the window below it. But the most important sign was the one that read 'Open.' Angela grabbed the door and jerked it open, stumbling face first into the broad chest of a bouncer. His leather vest was covered in zippers and studs, which left their mark as her body collided with his. "Back up, girlie," the bouncer growled. "No

why are boxes made for wild things? me being box-sized is no justification for putting me in one. i change my shape but the scriveners they are fleet-fingered and they are everywhere, they are in the parks, with strollers, dogs, a newspaper, an electrolyte drink and a nod, ready with their corrugated, laminated, or plain sheets of understanding where people belong ready to take my measurements and profile photo to gloss over my glory and wonder and mystery and lineage and heritage with whatever designs help them tame their fears of remembering their own wildness what's left behind when I peel away this freshly pressed name tag from its backing is the truth that i have no title, i am stripped of the beauty of being unnamed and can no longer cast furtive glances from behind papyrus stalks at the water's edge as when i first beheld you i dodged and ducked the sparring jabs of placing you in a box of my own defensive making and danced out of what i thought i should wear for the