At first, I thought it was the hangovers. There were a lot of them. There were a lot of tight slutty dresses, fake eyelashes, dark lipstick smears. There was music so loud I swore I could feel it in short, sharp bursts of happiness stolen from the morning after. There was mindless clubbing. Shots upon shots of liquor that had me hauled between bouncers and out onto the streets, had me pressing my lips on the lips of strange boys, had my arms covered in stamps and my bank account $2000 in deficit.
Now I realise it's not the hangovers. I wake up even on sober mornings, a grey fog of confusion hanging over me. Why am I still alive? How am I going to fix myself?
I think the only thing that keeps me hanging around is curiosity. I'm curious to see how else I'm gonna fuck things up. Let's be honest: although I've become known as a total disaster, my life has suddenly become a kaleidoscope of very very interesting stories. It's the sort of thing I would watch on a soap opera, or maybe read about in a teen fiction book with a very bold author. I say bold because my insatiable thirst for drama would make for more than one plot twist, calling for a skilled author to make sure it all comes together at the end.
I am destructive. I think that is a good describing word. I see perfect white skin and I scar it, leaving purple and silver linings. I see my soul as blacken it with guilt, shame and regret. I see blank paper and mar it with my story. I see a friendship and I ruin it. I see love and I soak it in alcohol and set it ablaze. I see my reputation and I smoke it away. I see trust and rip it I pieces and throw it to the ocean. And then il come crawling back, begging for a second chance.
I know i was depressed before, but I wasn't dirty. I wasn't full of sin, full of disgusting habits like I am now. Drugs and cigarettes were only something I wrote about, something I thought added a poetic twist to the lonely characters in my book. Random boys were something I stuck my nose up at. I had my life and I didn't need anything else.
When I finally got out of the aftermath of the breakup, the world was different and I wasn't even sure how I wanted to be put back together. I'm still not sure, but life goes on anyway, and now when he talks to me, he's not talking to the same person and I think he knows that.
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