"But if I were to die tonight - everything would feel complete."
Of course I didn't die. I am here. Unless this is my ghost talking. How would I know? How can you know?
We were young, and carefree. I took a shot of the city into my veins and let the lights dissolve me. Splattered all over the strip with my Christian Dior suspenders and my legit Miu Miu heels. Out of season, out of whack. I still looked better than your girlfriend. Assuming you have one. I revamped myself into a doll. The kind the fellas like. Minimal mind. A steroid, disco chic version of my former self. No blouses, no tees, no panties. A man tried to show me what life is really like - in an alleyway, behind a dumpster. Tres chic! I passed on the opportunity, but deeply regretted it later. The strip was beautiful. It was a graveyard. A garbage expository. It bleached everything in my mind, and in my vision. An attic feeds, a 'whore' eats, your husband just lost your child's college fund, and every club you go into is a parade of fake. Fake personalities, fake tits, fake lashes. Nevertheless, it entered into my bloodstream, and I liked it. I was whisked from club to club. Spent about 45+ in each & then retreated back into the hotel where I could tweet & catch up on youtube videos. You can't take the loner out of the girl.
The new year has already eaten me. Welcome to the end. It looks pretty though. For a minute there I actually believed I was getting better. With every sip of champagne, and every sweaty body pressed up against me - with their glitter and their knock off designer names - I really thought 'hey, in this moment, life is grand'
It was.
Shiny and full of possibilities.
My mother and my aunt went off to partake in 45 yr old+ activities. Watching gala shows with sequins and Vegas feathers. Gamble. Lose money. Drink the money. Fall in love with gorgeous male models. And of course drink some more. My cousin and I trailed off. Naturally. We met a man who wanted to take us back to his place for a modeling shoot. His equipment was in his pants. Delectable offer, but us girls know better. I did meet a out of this world alien type on new years eve. His hair pitch black, green eyes, skin polished and proper. I wanted to drink him. I did.
I really thought 'hey, in this moment, life is grand'
It was.
Shiny and full of possibilities.
But here I am back at home masticating in bed. Pull the trigger and kill this migraine. The anxiety has kicked in again and I actually feel worse than I have in months. The possibilities are endless now. I will curl up under the fire (we don't have a fireplace) and write poetry that will temporarily cure me. My electroshock therapy. My medicine.
May your year be - better than you have imagined. If your imagination is feeding you well that is.
Of course I didn't die. I am here. Unless this is my ghost talking. How would I know? How can you know?
We were young, and carefree. I took a shot of the city into my veins and let the lights dissolve me. Splattered all over the strip with my Christian Dior suspenders and my legit Miu Miu heels. Out of season, out of whack. I still looked better than your girlfriend. Assuming you have one. I revamped myself into a doll. The kind the fellas like. Minimal mind. A steroid, disco chic version of my former self. No blouses, no tees, no panties. A man tried to show me what life is really like - in an alleyway, behind a dumpster. Tres chic! I passed on the opportunity, but deeply regretted it later. The strip was beautiful. It was a graveyard. A garbage expository. It bleached everything in my mind, and in my vision. An attic feeds, a 'whore' eats, your husband just lost your child's college fund, and every club you go into is a parade of fake. Fake personalities, fake tits, fake lashes. Nevertheless, it entered into my bloodstream, and I liked it. I was whisked from club to club. Spent about 45+ in each & then retreated back into the hotel where I could tweet & catch up on youtube videos. You can't take the loner out of the girl.
The new year has already eaten me. Welcome to the end. It looks pretty though. For a minute there I actually believed I was getting better. With every sip of champagne, and every sweaty body pressed up against me - with their glitter and their knock off designer names - I really thought 'hey, in this moment, life is grand'
It was.
Shiny and full of possibilities.
My mother and my aunt went off to partake in 45 yr old+ activities. Watching gala shows with sequins and Vegas feathers. Gamble. Lose money. Drink the money. Fall in love with gorgeous male models. And of course drink some more. My cousin and I trailed off. Naturally. We met a man who wanted to take us back to his place for a modeling shoot. His equipment was in his pants. Delectable offer, but us girls know better. I did meet a out of this world alien type on new years eve. His hair pitch black, green eyes, skin polished and proper. I wanted to drink him. I did.
I really thought 'hey, in this moment, life is grand'
It was.
Shiny and full of possibilities.
But here I am back at home masticating in bed. Pull the trigger and kill this migraine. The anxiety has kicked in again and I actually feel worse than I have in months. The possibilities are endless now. I will curl up under the fire (we don't have a fireplace) and write poetry that will temporarily cure me. My electroshock therapy. My medicine.
May your year be - better than you have imagined. If your imagination is feeding you well that is.