Party Animal

Was I just too fucked up
for this to work?
Had I ruined the night
before even getting dressed?
still in bed
20 minutes to show time,
party go time,
and Im hunched over
a six pound bag
of peanut m&ms,
chugging a liter of
cold coffee
that was brewed
three days ago
when Id had the energy
to go downstairs
and the patience
to wait for the
drip drip drip
of that dark elixir.
Now, Im holding my
fucking pen
like a goddamn
hand grenade,
listening to the same song
over and over
til it makes me nauseous
and snapping at my mother
who just wants
to help me pick out a lipstick
and pleads with me
for the hundredth time
to leave my room
and go meet some people
which makes me feel guilty,
even though she doesn’t mean to
put those feelings on me,
I did somewhere in my hazy head
want to at least play normal

Six tranquilizers
and one panic attack later,
breathing so short Im feeling light headed
and have to pull over
into a gas station
with its boxcar lights
droning down on top of me.
I do my best to calm down alone
in my knee high black boots and
some little saucy skirt,
with one of my infamous
big tits shirts,
all of which makes
me look fabulous
but forgettable,
which Im all too aware of,
always knowing
Ive shown up to the wrong party,
feeling like some kind of
freak apparition or
an awkward octopus who shakes
and shuffles out of sight,
my eight tentacles outstretched,
attaching themselves
to the darkest corner
of the dance floor,
slurping down vodka cocktails
cause that’s what everyone else
seems to enjoy
though I know I always
throw it all up when I get home,
wishing to be underwater instead
and finding deep caves
to hide in.

I felt out of my mind,
fancied myself a vampire,
an erotic empire,
a soul entertainer,
some bastard’s badass bitch,
a fortune teller’s mistake,
a maiden of the moon,
but at the end of the night
felt absolutely nothing
and sang slurred lullabies
to my sweet midnight cat
who looked at me
with a sadness and knowing
akin to mother earth who
seemed to sleep alone too,
tossing and turning
with the tides
and eyes wide
staring into the void,
calling out for someone
to remember her name
in the morning
even when the house of cards fell
and left us
only dust and an apron
that was too tight
but must be warn
to clean the sexually frustrated furniture
and to keep
the hat racks
standing in attention
to the prophecy on
the last-standing wall
that echoed
our own madness
and the capitalist decay:
this was the only thought
that put a smile on my face
the whole evening
as I sat at the bar
and drank til I was sober again
in the already

drowning damned dawn.

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