{looking good for nothing.}

wearing high heals around the house for hours. while doing the dishes, dancing and singing with too much conviction for silverware to stand. sporting clip-on pearls and a strapless black dress laden with cigarette burns. done up like a novelty dude ranch in alaska. these hands were made for dangling fake wedding bands. and at night, after a few cocktails and enough cigarettes to make your grandmother jealous, crawling into bed to write down the momentary notions you have about love. the nothings you never had about love. you could write letters with a quill and the wet mascara bleeding from the underneath of eyes. it so so sad. so you write it down. do your nails. and go to sleep dreaming about some russian man you made up. falsely wandering through the fabricated world, the one seen in the second-hand copies of national geographic, and getting attacked by wolves. you fell to pieces. and now search the closets, cabinets and cupboard drawers, scour the pots and pans, for someone to really love you. with such an equivalent love. enough to drive you into a madness. someone who understands, and finds your neurosis to be endearing.