Dry Heaves

Every year, I’m a little less pretty. Every morning feels a little more shitty as butterflies fill up the porcelain bowl – coughed out of my mouth, pupating in my soul that the alcohol helped to shrink a few sizes. Every year one less girl looks in my irises and sees her reflection and thinks it looks nice. I’ve been repeating myself too often. Everyone’s sick of my bitching and coughing. Robert Lowell – I think that I failed you. I know that these modern times seemed to impale you on skewers of fate and 12-point size font. I have a dream that I know that I want but instead of trying – I spend my hours lying around on my couch, calling my guy and asking if its cool if I just swing by and of course it is – this is why I am not rich; I spend money on cigarettes and chapstick for lips that have gone way too long with no meaningful kiss that would give me some value.

~ by perfectionatrix on February 27, 2011.

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