I’m that girl from your computer screen,
on the live stream, or the self destructive Instagram stories.
I am a collective hallucination that heats up around Halloween and Christmas time.
That girl in a minidress at a Catholic Church,
that bitch who sits on the bridge by her lakeside lair, writing rhymes and reasons to stay alive,
unconvinced by the inconvenience of her insistent lungs and heart, who are suddenly so interested in increasing their lifespan.
I am the God that I worship on the way to wayward infamy,
creeping through the caverns of my own concoctions over and over,
because new ground isn’t nice to think about.
I am the worst and best thing to happen to many unfortunate people.
I am virtuous hypocrisy,
hanging out on hills and high horses,
ghost of girls past,
getting away from it all in my notebooks,
writing my memoirs and all my love songs about my candy lips and the candid stories that live all across my wide hips.
I’m not quite British,
so at times of trouble,
my mug makes no time for tea,
making eyes at the vodka that invites me from the top of the kitchen cupboard,
and when I drink,
I do so with the knowledge that nothing about my life will change,
and I will never really escape,
but I drink, nonetheless,
write a poem as I sober up,
and I sleep on a bed of bad choices.