the art of falling

It so hard to say she needs drama. But she lives for the thrill of another spill. Another spill. Putting up this front of aloofness, she wants to be one of them. Those cool kids. You know who she means - the glitzy, reebok’n, chain-smokin’, pot-headed beautiful disasters that walk the streets past midnight…

And tonight, in an alleyway she was baptized with the words “she’s one of us.” Smoking a cigarette to the stars, she shared in the rite of passage as she became totally one with her mask.

One hundred lies, one hundred scandals, one hundred texts later and she’s not satisfied –every stride and she is pulled in one direction too many. She has been caught in a social spider web of gossip girl’s fantasies, but time goes by and she realizes – she no longer is the card dealer but just another player putting on another façade…

And right now, she’s wondering why she’s feeling dirty… oh-so-flirty, fitting in, being thin, checking out then checking in. Hotel. Motel. Backseat…

Another spill waiting. The thrill of a risk, she is exhilarated and exhausted. Reeking of the cheap perfume sprayed on like her smile, she walks across the threshold of her house. She hopes they don’t smell the lust-smoke-plaster dripping down her face, crinkled at the corners of her eyes like the thick black sparkly eye shadow as she crashes onto her bed, fully clothed - missing one button and half of a heart.

This is the art of falling