She is in a rebellion. Her gunpowder sinking into her lungs, as she tucks the cigarette between her lips. The battle song warbles from her Beats headphones, and inside she cries the war cry. She is in a rebellion.
She sits in a faux leather-cushioned chair with a newspaper in hand, staring at the people passing by. The clock ticks on every minute that she is alone. She is in a rebellion.
She watches the barista make a couple one drink, his thick arms rolling over each other, his lips spread wide to bare his teeth, his hair tied at the nape of his neck, his plaid collar kissing his neck. She is in a rebellion.
She catches the newspaper as it shifts in the wind, caressing the World Trade Centre with a fervent hand, pleading America to stay and feed it with gunpowder and infected blankets. She is in a rebellion.
She reads the obituaries, where grandmas and grandpas lay buried in ink and dead trees, dead memories and dead apologies. Their money is thrown around like the cocktail shaker in the massive arms of the male barista. She is in a rebellion.
She closes her eyes and feels the pages turn blue in her hand, and she breathes choking life into its bloodstream with gunpowder and nicotine. American rights and freedoms to feed the starving masses. American rights and freedoms to inhibit the fruitful Masses. American rights and freedoms to educate the classes. American rights and freedoms to encourage the Classes. She is in a rebellion.