Breathe it in. Go deep. Take it all. Now hold. Count to ten. Count to twenty. Feel the fire in your lungs. Let it fill your soul. Delude your senses…. Exhale. Now there are dragons in you. Can you see them, as your head swims? Is it the lack of oxygen or is it reality? With these forty-six breaths I think about life and death-cancer in particular- and wonder which intake of this poison will bring me a step closer to death. That is where life comes in. It's exhilarating, you see? Every molecule of oxygen and smoke for that ten minute span is a praise of the life inside me. A "thank you" for my luck. And that's the brand I smoke. Lucky Strikes. I started when this boy, who was hotter than the orange glow at his lips, offered me a drag. A drag, a pull, a lick, a suck, a fuck, I'll take it all. I wanted it. Yet, here I am, a year later, a state later, a home later… and that boy, he was a fag. Now, each night I stand in the cold, on the top floor of this old apartment complex and I watch the shifting moon, I watch its haunting opaque form swim in the blackness until midnight, when the painted pink stucco roof blocks my view. In these hours I reflect. I think about the loss of my world, and wonder if I miss it. Going through the motions and not knowing what to feel. Lucky?
The world thinks I'm lucky. I have so many blessings that others don't. I light up a cigarette on a full stomach, stretch my cramped legs after a long day of work, pull out a cheep bottle of perfume to hide the scent from my loving family and wish I could smoke under the roof which I am so greatfull to have. I'm the luckiest, fucking soul alive: Princess Supreme living on Sugar Mountain, looking down at the world like it's a movie.
That's not what I want though, I want the right to complain, I want the right to bitch! I want to slaughter my family so I can say, "Look what I've lost." I want to burn down this apartment so I never have to see the stained, shit-brown rug again. I want to get food poisoning and throw up over the balcony on to old bitch, Ms. Minna's, car. I want to choke my boss so that he'll hate me instead of thinking I'm a sweet young lady. I want to wear a sign that reads "Futureless Retard" so everyone knows my greatest achievement was high school diploma. I wish I had taken the dog's shit and smeared it at everyone's door step before they took Benjamin away, just so all those disgusted looks I get from these assholes in this complex around me wouldn't be in vein…. I wish this perfume weren't so strong, it gives me a headache.
I want to be "Little Miss Sunshine" in the day and "Mr. Don't Fuck with Me" at night. That is who I am, too mixed up to choose one persona, but not lucky enough have a spit personality disorder. Lucky, but not lucky enough.