I sat in the back of the bus
because that’s where the broken kids sat.
Not the cool ones—
the twitchers, the burnouts,
the ones who already knew by third grade
this world was a bad fucking joke.
Left side, right side?
Jesus.
That was for the believers.
The ones still dumb enough to think
which seat you chose
meant a damn thing when the brakes were cut.
Now we’re adults—
barely—
dressed up in grown-up costumes
shouting bumper-sticker manifestos
with all the conviction of a child
reading a cereal box.
You think your side matters?
You’re still on the bus.
Still headed straight for the edge.
It’s just that now—
you paid for the ride
with your spine.
I saw a sign the other day:
Gays for Gaza.
And I thought—
Holy shit,
we’ve lost the script.
In Gaza they’d hang you by your ankles
and call it justice.
But sure, wave the flag.
March in circles.
It’s not about truth—
it’s about being seen.
I feel like I’ve been dropped into a Kafka play
rewritten by TikTok influencers
with terrible ring lights—
everyone stuck in a loop,
lip-syncing their own execution.
That’s what they want, isn’t it?
To be seen.
Heard.
Felt.
Fucked.
Validated by anyone, anything—
even if it means
joining a parade
led by ghosts.
They want to belong
so bad
they’ll build homes in their own execution chambers
and call it progress.
Left side, right side—
there’s no steering wheel.
The driver’s a ghost.
The road’s on fire.
And the rest of us?
We’re just passengers
pretending our seat matters
while the bus barrels toward the abyss.
And when the smoke clears—
if it ever does—
they’ll find bones in rows
like teeth in a grin,
still arguing
over who had the better view
as the whole goddamn thing
went down.
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