you think i’m not a goddess?

my tongue is still raw from when i sipped tea a little too eagerly, but i find myself content and sloshy nonetheless. i’m in a glorious haze of non-hungoverness, if that can be called a thing (and it can, because i just did, so ha). in the way that i still have traces of eyeliner clinging between my lashes (like despondent sea snails perched on a rapidly-drying rock when the ocean has left them, who try but can never catch up to the fleeing tide because hello, they’re snails), my fierce warrior amazon psyche from the night before lingers in my aching bones, not quite ready to fade away and leave me with my regular self.

i mean, it’s not like she’ll ever really go away, because who do you think brought her round for drinks in the first place? but the doldrums of reality beat ever onwards, and this tantalizing phantasm would cease to intrigue if she, in all her stygian glory, rocked up in the watery sunlight of this sorry excuse of a season, blinking indignantly and revealing to the world the kind of stuff that’s easy to hide in the dinge.

y’know, like maybe her jeans are a bit too long, or her shoes are just a little too twee for her liking.

you see, the appeal of slipping into someone else’s skin is that it only happens when i’m just so goddamn ready to ditch my sweet schoolgirl self on the side of the road, coughing back the dust and forlornly still believing that my silence makes me mysterious

and not just forgettable.

she orders me a gin & tonic, smiles knowingly when i find myself drawn to its exquisite unsettling taste, then hurries me onto the dance floor, not caring that it’s




to be a 21-year-old dancing to chart-toppers in a club. you think she gives a fuck what people scoff at these days? she plucks archetypes, like ripe berries off the legit shrub of prejudice, and swallows them whole.

it’s where her, like, power and shit comes from, dude.

whatever the case, i find myself rubbing my vocal chords raw and moving my body in ways that would surely be mortifying in the absence of any number of factors that make this situation what it is.

look, i know that nobody’s going to inspect my gloriously-applied gel eyeliner and nod appreciatively, or care that my aggressively-coiffed hair is fucking righteous, because once we walk up into the club like what up, I got a big cock the only thing people care about is seeking out the kind of transcendental experiences that can only be found at the bottom of a highball glass.

so i let her take over me, and her hold on me is so sublime that i cling to her as long as i can, basking in the afterglow of her spirit even while i sit at my computer, unmoving, in my pajamas for the entirety of the sun’s newest manifestation.

tomorrow i’ll get shit done. tomorrow she’ll be safely tucked away behind my ribs, unhurriedly sipping spiked tea while she awaits her next debut.

we can’t wait.



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