it’s the kind of haze that smears tobacco into the walls of your alveoli and leaves you gasping for more, sitting in a puddle of mascara and lipstick, wondering how smiles framed with fifties red became asphalt roads that lead the depths of a nowhere that never ends
the scar on the inner right thigh is where you learnt about nails that chip on vodka glasses and scratch their way down to the pits of stomachs where the butterflies don’t move.
and the way he rolls the white tablet around on his tongue is the only thing that keeps you coming back for more, drowning in elated episodes that don’t quite make it to long term memory because you can’t remember the last time you were called by your own first name
its 2:01 am and all you have left to reminisce is a series of fragments that once belonged to you, but the show must go on and so it does, with souls that die only to be sold and revived again with the hope of someday
they sew you into the beading in the red curtains and dispose of you every six months, behind diamonds and pearls and half drunken middle aged men looking for attention in your young aspiring eyes
you fell in love for the last time as they stripped away your old face
- cabaret style nights
- the romanticist