Author: i'll ask the stars above PM
she throws up every other thursday and pretends her orange juice is mixed with vodka. she promises that loving someone is like being ripped apart. you can never get your seams to match up.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Tragedy - Words: 479 - Reviews: 10 - Favs: 12 - Published: 07-02-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2385084
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
she drinks two-day past due orange juice out of double
shot glasses, smoking rolling tobacco out of dolphin shaped
pot pipes, rainbows of colors dancing across her fading tan.
she spins in slow circles, wearing green tights and two of his t-shirts,
the smoke dances out of her mouth and she coughs.
(silly darling, the weed is long gone)
every other thursday she throws up a enough
pills to start dealing out of her bathroom and still pay
the hospital bills, a cacophony of pink white beige green blue,
painkillers and sedatives and mood stabilizers and her
mind just spins with possibilities. she'd prefer to paint pictures with them.
she settles for the way her juice burns a path behind her lips, and the way
her head jerks against the wall, being caged is more than amusing.
(angelic whore, you forgot how to lick the powder off the razorblades)
her eyes stay pinned to the caller id, and she keeps the ringer off,
the call never comes. (but then, who would call?) she writes letters
with sharpies, pens, and paintbrushes, runs the words together in a
looping scrawl and when she tumbles into bed, a giggle pierces her mouth,
how will she send them, how will anybody know? she kicks at her mattress,
her pharmaceutical cocktail slams her apart.
(broken sweetheart, your new signature is to intimate: aching & yours)
she walks ten miles to buy a pack of cigarettes, biting tic-tacs
into pieces and spitting them out when they get to small. she doesn't eat anymore,
and she whispers to the german accent in her head, and she fantasizes,
takes polaroids of the letters on her wall and stuffs them into envelopes addressed
to place where maybe they'll keep and maybe they'll be lost but at least
she feels heavy again, tied to the ground and welcoming suicide with bright eyes
eager for a future dying for another heartbreak.
she knows nothing about the days anymore, lost &
and thinking it's the third of june and he's coming home soon.
her hands shake and she burns her old scars with yellow & pink lighters,
something about those pretty colors, she thinks, and puts on eyeliner just for him.
.iv : ii.
(skittle girl promises forever and the days blur into philosophical mistakes.
she never believed in accidents. she erased the paths on the map that will
lead her back and now she looks at the cocaine beautiful squiggle in front of her
and she remembers the dangerous thing about winter and water-)
icicles are his favored cult-following for murder,
a not-really original idea that leaves her heart frozen and bleeding
under her fading tan hands that skimmed down his sunburnt shoulders.
.v : i.
there is no place for you here.