Two-hundred and Seventeen: The Tenth Ghost

The sun and the moon have melted
into a hybrid sky. Breakfast takes
place in the middle of the day. I
loll around in my bed, lazy as a
lilo, until I make an educated
guess that the evening has rolled
in. I put on high-heels and I smoke
it, so I can joke about my flaws
in style. I make promises to put
out and then break them because
I’m burnt out. I am temporarily
tepid-tempered, an easy stream
of silent compliance. There will
be no fuel for this fire until
September. Then I intend to
surge with a phoenix smile,
and pretend I was here all
the while, that I didn’t spend
all summer roasting myself
over and over again. You know,
I’m wearing my tenth ghost now.
Each one fits better than the last.


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

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