That Girl

I fucked your friend and shared my tears with him,

and another time I got too drunk and threw up as I cried and became intimate with the toilet in the bathroom of a closed down club in Aspen, a private party you would’ve adored.

I kept saying “this is all just so fucked up,” over and over until a friend hugged me with so much love I felt, momentatily, as if it was all going to be alright.

Since then, I’ve donned leather and lace late at night as I carried a whip around, looking for trouble, undressing slowly a handsome bouncer I met on the street as I whispered in his ear the dirty things I would like to do to him, and

I’ve fallen asleep holding her close and desiring her lips in a way I’ve never had before.

All this to say I don’t know who I am these days.

I don’t know who to be without you.

At times I feel like an idiot, sitting on her couch, hands on my head, mascara and red lipstick smeared, admitting under the spell of tequila, to whoever will be around to listen, that I don’t want to be that girl. This mess.


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