London is a dance. It is a city of dreams, desires, decadence. The beautifuls swirling by in their cocktail dresses and high heels and floating laughter as the glasses clink and champagne falls. Accented voices speak of faraway lands, love, opportunities, promises. The music plays as the couples whirl past, lovers for that instant, that moment on a dance floor, at a VIP table as the vodka passes through eager lips, thirsty bloodstreams. Intoxication.

What lurks beyond the strangers voices? The contact of their arms and lips brushing against your own, the flirtations lasting a moment, an hour, a night? Only fools believe the whispered words of others, only the ignorant cant see past the surface to the cold calculation that lies behind the stories spun like a spiders web, glistening and intricate and glinting in the light. Until you are caught and the monster comes for you.

I had a dream

I was chasing after you in an event, past the guests in bird masks and feathers, garish orange beaks and sharp pointed teeth. They were in purples and maroons and dark forest greens, but you, you were in your pale blue Alice dress, white tights and shiny black flats. Light brown wavy hair moving past me, always a step away as I search for you among the hardened aristocrats and blood thirsty vampires of the party scene. Until I finally catch up and you and you turn to me and say “I am not the one running”.

A sharp pain twists my leg and I am awake, you are gone and it has found me. The monster. Dark black well, pit of worthlessness, small frightened child finding comfort in the misery. Why fake it anymore? I do not want to live a lie.

Use me abuse me whip me, objectify me if you must, spit on me hurt me tear me to pieces but please don’t love me and then reject me. Whatever you do, please please don’t pretend that you care.

I would rather be torn apart than be betrayed. Don’t you see? Love is like a drug, a beautiful high that comes before the fall. Loving you was the worst crash I ever experienced.

I want to be a living doll, painted pink porcelain rosebud lips and blue glass eyes, cloth where there was once a chest, cold ceramic instead of lungs, fabric replacing what was once a broken heart.

I am a Venetian carnival mask, painted-on swirls and glitter and colours gay, synthetic lips twisted into an eternal smile. Only behind the disguise I am screaming inside. And nobody knows.

Self-destructive. Socialite. Hermit. Beautiful. Ugly. Sick.

I want the fame and glory. I want to die. I want to shoot up high like a star, like a firework, like a young starlet who makes it big and then OD’s on the bathroom floor. I am a supernova, bright and great and exploding. Destined one day to crash and burn.
I want I want I want.


Will I make an imprint on this solar system? Or will I simply fade away, a dying spark in an overcrowded universe?

And the city waltzes on.


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