I joined a writing group with high schoolers who are better than me at writing. It is so much fun. Our first topic was "masks." Here is my piece:

Angry people.

Minute bits of earth lay restless underneath my flimsy pathetic fingernails. Halfheartedly, I repair their cleanliness with my teeth and picture toilet handle soiled diaper feet remnants crawling into my open mouth. I don’t focus on these thoughts enough to really care. My piece of nail breaks, a plaything for my lonely tongue. No longer companioned by the rod that used to pierce through it, keeping it occupied in times of little adventure.
A shiny brunette cuddles me without permission. She tests my resistance. Close enough for uncomfort, she inches more. Her closeness implies a desire for intimacy, but I see past her devious trickery. She moves me. Quite literally. Away from her non-supple path. The fingernail moves from one cheek to the other.
My mood refuses to be affected by impolite passers-by. Janis prays for a color TV and a night on the town in my all alone world. Next door, a hooded sweatshirt beats frantically to this raspy tune. His appearance causes stares, and he relishes them. Some things are larger than they need be; I observe. His rhythmic trance is disrupted by an older model of him. The standoff is unpleasant. Angry limbs flail. The grey hood, once peacefully attached to a bobbing mop, flies backward in a silent shoulder-dropping slouch of disgust. Two middle fingers express their irritation. You dented, wobbling, overused man. The grey haired man who coughs substance smiles contently. His unsteady hands are locked around a steering circle. Woozy he glides zigzag. Is he impaired by substance or heart break? I zoom in. His gaze – a woman to his right.
She. Compact and opinionated. Her body tells me things I need to care about. Her back: an advertisement and a protest. I imagine, for lack of anything better to do, that I am her. My head itches. Detesting meat and conservative people. Humming a catchy, organic tune, I shed the heavy, constricting garb suffocating me and revel in the freedom of being naked in nature. I am vicariously high.
And of course my short-lived imaginary bliss is disrupted by a pushy, arrogant, chauvinistic, I-am-better-looking-and-worth-way-more-than-everyone-else-with-the-exception-of-very-big-breasted-women, supercilious, middle aged man. I choke for a bit, gagging on fingernail and men. A Large attitude in a sleek, petite exterior. He uses this smooth discourtesy to enter my personal space. He has the right of way. He is sure of it. Slow. Fast. In. Out. On top of me and I am breaking. On top of her. And him. Owning the way. I am pregnant with disgust.
Bloodshot eyes glare when I follow them at night. They never close, only get brighter sometimes. Lights tell me things like when to go. We march, ants in a perfect line, except ruder. We don’t have a queen. Ants know how to merge. We merge like a metal zipper on a sleeping bag.
Green and blue and rust, colors mix with yellow on grey. Eyes refuse to focus and everyone yells at me. They might be nice people sometimes? I mouth I’m sorry for crossing the line. There is no forgiveness here. No understanding. My grandma is afraid to cross the road with all the traffic. More angry people. Sitting behind steering wheels that meld them. Behind her he gets out of his car and stops traffic for her. My grandma crosses, so afraid. Old slow people. They can’t remember how to drive. Everyone shakes their heads or honks. They honk a lot. Too much. People are rushing. Always hurrying. I just want to get home. My fingernails are all short.