I'm willing to put my conscience on hold, so that in this pitch dark of night, I'll reach out and not feel an empty space beside me. I'll shut that voice that sings of the truth, so as the sun rises and invades my bedroom, I can turn and say " Isn't this a beautiful morning?" and hear you reply.
But it doesn't happen. I switch my cellphone off and drown myself in stale tea and cigarettes. I wallow in self-pity. Why must this night be so endless? Why must the morning sun be so blinding?
Too many times I walk through the door and ask myself "Why hasn't the party ended?" I don't want the bubly. I don't need the boys. Tequila doesn't make my problems go away. It makes me cry, makes my mascara run, makes me get fucked by blokes I don't like or in that case ever grow to like.
So what if they're hot? They take advantage of this vulnerable me. The emotional me. The me that happens after 7 shots. Pull my skirt up and feel my legs, how their touch disgust me. I wish they would just leave, leave me alone.
