heartbreak never suited stefani. one of the few things she simply couldn’t pull off no matter how hard she tried. she’s never grown accustomed to how it sits so heavily on your head, hangs there like a veil created to distort reality and drain the colour from the world. the way it manages to touch every part of your day, hit off things that were once solidary that now ooze with reminders of them. it’s like wearing bell sleeves to a dinner that dip into your red wine when you reach for the salt and leave stains on the pristine table cloth.
it’s tiring in the same way her favourite bejewelled corset is. beautiful to wear but so heavy, leaves it’s imprint on your hips and chest. she does her best to put on a big smile and pose for the camera but at home in her empty apartment after the show she must deal with it’s aftermath. tenderly caring to wounds, a hot bath to ease the muscle pain.
the thing that pains her most is it’s longevity. there’s lovers she’s moved on from, hasn’t thought about in years but a whiff of that one guerlain scent on the street and she’s right back in their arms. she can’t stomach baillie’s poetry because of the woman who kissed her so gently between stanzas. won’t listen to journey because the first man who hurt her said anyway you want it was written for her. she’s moved on a thousand times yet they stay there in her heart, waiting.
stefani is a liar. she laughs and flips her hair and says darling, at least versace will never leave you, then goes to her closet and cries. lovers leave impressions so deep she can’t go a day without thinking of them, but the mugler she saved from a dying queen’s closet smells like mothballs and is falling apart at the seams.