Charlotte
She splashes thoughts onto notebook pages with an old Bic. Kitchen table strewn with cheap chocolates and meals from St. Vincent’s. On her old bed sheets, rolling paper and tufts of tobacco with exaggerated Brave on the bag. Arms scarred by a childhood disease that taught loneliness. The matriarch of two generations. She wanders the halls watching the world through an orphaned telescope. I watch her show me husband’s ashes. Dead baby one shot before his prime the daily conversation. I drive away to punch out a report about another woman who has paid a staggering price for wanting happiness.
Gwen
Trademarked short orange hair and dark ebony skin. Lips fully sculpted, flesh and throat empty of words. She shrugs off pain and rage, calmly puffing on her blunt. The smoke is pleasant as she only smokes fifty dollars and up stuff. My tired eyes scan her beefy arms. She smirks away her bruises and scratches. Head down, then suddenly up as if to catch her breath, she asks where her Doritos are. An apology made as my mind is failing me. Chipped toes like old New Mexican turquoise flex encased in tight leather sandals. She likes talking to me sometimes.
Sara
Lip torn on the side, old scar she says. Fingertips of right-hand dark yellow from meth. Spry, she walks with springy silver hair, taking measured steps. Toothless smile is her weapon as all hearts are melted. When lost in her pain, she threatens to jump off the ledge. We beg until the psych unit arrives. Dainty fist punches at the air screaming at her demon to fly away. On good days she wears shoes for the ballet and tells me of the sixties. At night I wonder why in her twilight she’s not baking pies and cooing at grandchildren.
Tina
Thursdays are my days with her. Dressed in colors of her sisterhood, speaking slurred at 10 a.m. because her man beat her. Out of all of them, she’s the most like Lady Day. Eyes like a dove deeper than sad, she stands alone among the millions in the city. Cooking is a passion of hers, although, on most days, the drink keeps her from feasting. And when we talk, it’s always about her mother and the suffering she brought to her. A stepfather comes into the narrative, but she breaks down mid-sentence as she becomes too mortified to speak.
Althea
Long hair and fire. She smiles upon the flowers on the mural in the hall. Four changes of clothes. She recycles without sweating because she doesn’t have money. Her hands caramel butter since she was born and adopted. While we journey through her life, she can get up from her seat and act out the scenes. Her tears are like green grapes. When in the rage, she pounds her chest and blames herself. Then in the quiet hours, the steam from her tea kisses her nose. Her eyes are magnified by her taped-up glasses. It’s blue jean day again.
Kay
Typically, around Tuesday noon Cleopatra will visit. Head scarves, blues, and greens, with splashes of gold from her eyes. Her cheeks poppy red as her lips burst with carnation pinks. Like a diamond. In this lifetime, Marc Antony has a mustache and lives on 120th Street by the church, where they give out food. The asp of her madness takes us to the emergency room a few times a week. The potions of the white coat man aren’t made for me, she screams. On most nights, she curls up on the couch and dreams of the children that she lost.
Sina
She remembers being her mother’s favorite boy until she wasn’t. Standing at over 6 feet, she stomps around in splendor. Coping skills are not a strength, and cell phones become her scapegoats. She asks for condoms and sleeping aids to make the tormentors go away. A decorated Central American war hero sodomized with rats. Now she is here, and it’s best to remember that she used to be a happy little girl and now a mouthy woman. Our Friday routines are magical spins with cherry Slurpees. At times she stares at a tiny toy soldier she hangs around her wrist.
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Born and raised in Los Angeles, mb writes about the downtown urban life experience. inspired by personal events, mental illness and in working with vulnerable communities. mb has been published by Free Verse Revolution – 2023, Indie Blu(e) Publishing – 2020 and 2021, The Short of It – 2020 and 2022, Newington Blue Press – 2021, Prolific Pulse Press – 2021 and 2022. mb was first featured on The Short of It in 2020 and then again in 2022. She became a 2021 Pushcart Prize Nominee for her piece Fulfillment. You can find all her work if you click HERE.
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I Write Her 
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