I want to fuck my own life like a new bitch in prison. According to the newspapers I’m a Colgate smile all the time. I veil the holes of my eyes with vodka. I’m aware of every curve and I intend to use it for revenge. The days shuffle by in morse code. I’m bored. Having balls always comes with a chain. I like to blow them just to see how easily they fall. I’m angry and they like that and this makes me angrier.

This pain is on a loop. I’m sweeping hope across the sky, lassoing dreams on stars. Make me a shadow. I paint my lips a vile red; I dare you to kiss me. Take my body and do with it what you will. The engine is off anyway.

If I wanted a job, I would count every grain of sand and put every rock back together. I want to live in the seventies and be stoned every day. I’m cashing in on adolescent aspirations but it’s not so sweet.

They stuck butterfly needles in the crease of my arms. I never learnt to take care of myself. When the liquid hits, it drip, drip, drips into my veins. Do you know what that feels like? To feel the cold cursing through your veins? I felt it again last night like a well-rehearsed verse. My breath folded into itself and I remembered the constant churning. No, Mother, it’s not starvation, it’s a decade’s worth of worry.

Here, I’ll put on my green dress, the long one that covers up all the cuts they made me make, the one that doesn’t make me feel real. I want to walk to the top of a mountain and stay there for a very long time, looking down on everyone and their little lives; laughing because I will be alone and free. That is not true. I cannot even write it. I am a terrible liar.

At some point, this mind will get out of bed. This mouth will eat more than whipped cream. But not yet. I have been the poster-girl for sunshine for months: such a long time. See where that got me? Darkness becomes me. That is when I stand up the straightest.

I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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