All we did was sit around,
the same faces, bad makeup,
in the same shitty kitchen
drinking the same shitty wine -
thinking we were oh-so-different,
ash on the floor that high heels
slammed through
one Saturday night in November,
the same wooden boards
we all sat on to receive tattoos;
I don’t know about the others,
but mine are proving painful and
expensive to remove.
It was within those walls
that I learned to weaponise
romance - to use my cunt to build
a wall around my heart,
since it’s hard to trust when
you’re surrounded by assholes.
I remember
fucking on a mattress covered in broken glass,
and no, that’s not poetic license
my thighs really bled, and I have
no idea but I hope
he has scars on his back,
he deserves them;
being dragged onto the neighbours’ roof
and sang to,
singing lovesongs, spouting nonsense
of how a silly boy
loved an idea of a girl, any girl
and decided to throw that idea at me
and thought it spoke of my heart,
not his,
when I saw right through that rooftop bullshit
(I fucked him anyway,
I remember it as uneventful.)
Our lipstick prints remained on the walls
until they knocked it down -
what didn’t stay
were the smashed windows from various parties,
the roadside couches we made our own,
the thousand useless memories
of lovers I no longer like;
friends who never call or write,
though I think that trend started with me anyway;
doors that shook on their hinges
from one too many slams,
greying walls with pictures
painted up and down the skirting,
cracked paint
and beer bottles lining the back yard.
I hated that house.
theartofmadeline
gummygunk
janainaart
snowghoul
prguitarman
