Sunday, August 9, 2009

Good Woman.

I'll stand in front of the mirror again.
My eyes are red and small; puffy and bloodshot.
Maybe my eyebrows could be different; maybe my eyes are set too close together?
There's swollen bags under my eyes from lack of sleep; the dye is starting to fade and regrowth is coming through. The knots in the brassy, disgusting faded red strands hurt when I tug at them.
My skin's sallow and dry, and my lungs are heavy.
Smoked too many cigarettes; drawn too many joints; pulled too many cones; drank too many spirits.
My lips are cracking and dry and my nose is too big for my face.
My teeth are yellowing from too much coffee; coffee doesn't even give me energy anymore - it does nothing, but warm my throat.
My body is broken from too many falls, lack of balance.
Talent's draining fast; the drought is far from breaking.
Where is the rain?

"Why are you always in a constant state of crisis, Amy?"
"Your voice annoys me."
"Do you even think before you speak?"
"Is your ego big enough?"
"Why are you such a cunt?"
"You care too much."
"I liked you better when you were neurotic."
"You freak me out when you're normal."
"I don't think your jokes are that funny."
"Your laugh is so fucking obnoxious."
"You vomited on your shoes last night; you partied way hard."

Why are you always in a constant state of crisis, Amy?