They are steeped in too much pain.

It seeps out their pores.

They swear, they smoke, they drink,

but don’t fight or beat or kill.

She loves people

who are obviously damaged.

Hookers, drug addicts, harmless criminals, the mentally ill,

honest about their past and current defects

worn on their sleeves,

like the tattoos on their bodies.

Keeping a job is difficult,

not that they don’t try.

They are society’s outcasts,

They need food stamps and help of all kinds.

She feels welcome with them.

She can drink with them, understand them

and hang out with them,

and not be judged or judging.

She just feels normal,

like who she is, isn’t shocking.

They are drawn to her because

they know all of this when they meet her.

They always recognize each other

though she has no body marks

and doesn’t smoke or have the jitters

or ramble or stutter.

Maybe it’s her youthful face

with gray-white hair strewn about and in bands:

her surface self.

But they probably sense the same traits,

like childhood trauma, PTSD, disorders,

fear of social engagements,

openness at the wrong times,

getting fired for disabilities,

needing SSI and Medicare.

Artistic from depths unknown,

perhaps craters of the soul

in submarine trenches,

a canyon of emotions flowing across the oceans,

like a scar borne forever,

like chains around the neck, our necks.

The weight draws them together

and eases their pain.

How they’ve known each other long before they met,

commiseration—a beautiful tide pool of color

in the gray, gray sea.