Self-portrait

I met my ghost yesterday,

 on the bus

 at a time young girls-

 are not supposed to travel alone.

 I was thirsty for freedom; 

she sat next to me-

 dressed like a wanderess,

 she smelt of some cheap perfume 

and her face a golden cage.

 We sat together like anthills

 and did not speak, 

we were immigrants-

 of a violent history, 

she sold her body and I my brain.