Surrounded by the chaos of my possessions,
Smoke-stained walls plastered with faded photographs;
On the floor stacks of books.
Over the years my room has changed locations, holding me in like thoughts in conversations.
I am here, still;
A nearly empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose in my hand, cigarette burned down to the filter.
I am the unwanted gift left behind by men who couldn’t find enough room for the refuse of their lives.
Men who left me alone to drink, wanting a woman who couldn’t or wouldn’t think to match their own lack of substance.
I am an outdated model of a mastered game; trapped inside my own body.
There are dark circles under my eyes from too many wasted nights.
I am ignorant of abuse;
A happy and willing slave to the next man to notice my stone-blue eyes, the curve of my hip, the movement of my lips as I slowly inhale smoke from my cigarette.
Once,
I imagined I was beautiful, a man unwrapped me;
My body, not my mind.
I woke up to an empty bottle and a man I couldn’t remember next to me forcing his hand down my pants as my head spun.
I lie here pretending I don’t feel the pain,
Drinking, popping pills, eating chocolate.
I am a living, breathing stereotype, barely able to stand as I pull a pair of jeans over my widening hips, hold in my stomach as I zip myself into costume,
A little eyeliner, face powder, lipstick to complete the task
And I hardly recognize myself underneath this mask
Or remember who I was to begin with.
1993