Her ink is deeper set
Than her hollow poser soul
Short in stature
And social graces
Cackle laugh too loud to be ironic
Her ink is her past set to skin
Painting her body
With claims of cool
While nothing of substance
Could be found within
Everyday a new tragedy
Or trauma befalls
And she regales trapped cubemates
With her latest tale of woe
Frustrated liquid bubbles up in the cooler
Longs to be flushed
Like her presence should be
Stale cube air
Holds the indifference
Of those who sit and listen
And wade through the shallow
Of her existence