That vodka bottle

undoing buttons, pouting
into car windows and jutting
out hipbones standing tiptoe
and grinning like ecstasy is free.
giggling,
holding hands too tightly and
hiding vodka bottles down out pants
because it makes for good chat up
lines and gets us past security.

Its just another off-white night
inhaling dirty second-hand cigarette smoke
rusty reasoning and dizzy thoughts swirl
round my mind and for some reason I'm
holding his hand, my arms spun up tight
around him and too many unfinished excuses
drop limp onto the floor along with my clothes
and can someone turn out the light, please?

I don't need lullaby's anymore
with the dull throb of regret hushed
by sneaking out windows sliding
down rooftops and laughing
up the motorway at 4 am, bare foot and a
brown hair doll replacing me back home.

I may have lost my innocence
but I have a heart shaped hikki
on my stomach
and seventeen empty
vodka bottles lined up inside
my cabinet back in my too bright
bedroom that stinks of a childhood
I ran too fast away from.
each bottle like every book
could tell you a once upon time
story of where and when and who
and how and what happened
the morning after when I was sucked try
of delusions.

In the days where £5 could get me through
a week and at least 3 more boymen
I'd never call back, I was just this thing
stuck on repeat every night of the week
ending in disaster 6 times out of 7.
I guess it cut to fade on me saying no
and drinking Malibu and diet coke
instead, while I said "I think I need to know
you better," in a bar somewhere in Spain.
Then on some blank screen someone
could write that I lived happily ever after.

(just so long as they never printed the epilogue.)

---

its over. for now. I wish there was a word bigger than thankyou, for all the reviews. Some of them really meant alot to me, so thanks.