Rainstorm growing pains

I feel like a foreigner
in my own country
as I make my way
home.
I wonder, where is my home anyway?
Where can I find it?
It'd be nice if someone
could point me somewhere
and tell me to stay put,
I think as I slog through the tunnels
in your purposefully-decimated boots.
Slish, slosh,
they are filled with puddles.
I look at my reflection
in the window of the bus
as I confront this old, familiar feeling
made new in light of jarring information.
What am I doing.
and
Why am I doing it.
and
Will I continue to
torture myself this way.
I want to be your best friend,
I tell my reflection.
You don't need anyone else.
Fuck 'em all---look what they've done to you.
I gave my last five-dollar bill
to the friendly bus driver
and before that
I gave one to a man
who told me
that he was schizophrenic
and recited a poem.
A self-conscious man
stomps his boots
in an attempt to be noticed.
Another broken wine bottle
adorns the floor
with its shards of glass.
Don't try to comfort me.
Don't try to reassure me
with pats on the back.
You're part of the problem,
and I hate myself for letting you into
my life
so willingly--
I've crossed borders
for you.
It was bound to happen eventually.
I realize that
you're just as unhealthy as me
and wonder whether this
is comforting
or disconcerting.