The meat of the sea chopped me up sushi knife with sesame seeds glued together like teeth primal screams came from the house with the dimming lights I remember the look on her face when she saw when she saw the blood pouring from the slice above my eyebrow there is no glamour in this life. I could have been that girl with the knock off Louboutin’s smoking menthols with her shaking talons flipping through Emily Dickinson in the park. I wanted to die I wanted the end to come. I’d dress up with the best of them — the Parisian harlot carrying a vial of Absinthe back to the hotel. I just wanted to feel good I wanted to be that bitch. his name stayed like rot on my tongue, free of tonsils but still catching at the back of my throat. he worshipped me. I was his goddess. I had his entire heart. all that power, all that responsibility. he drove through McDonalds at 6 am, the cheese stretched against his teeth. an assault, a riot, a talisman. palm full of yellow grease. I’m still his best girl his best English doll. II Friday nights are weird drinkin’ a can of cherry seltzer I write on my mirror with red lipstick you whore
whoring yourself out for men a playboy bunny I steal a lighter from the landlord heading up the Nisa Local I start planning my revolutionary diet of Haribo hearts, and one square of chocolate the cashier lets me chug a gallon of peach nectar he wants me to slow down he wants to paint my nails with the kids nail polish with the faded birthday sprinkles I open up my tote bag a rats nest of purple wrappers blackcurrant licorice candies I’m losing my mind strays and waifs come in and out they wanted me off the Prozac herbal remedies sustaining me more people are suffering than we know they know where I’ve been wearing Creed forces me to be seen Calabrian bergamot pushes down in the gut I’ll be the girl they never forget his British girl he liked my accent I bet he will again in another life far away from here we could have disagreed but it was only ever meant to be too posh / too common / too formal / too modern. III blackcurrant blood / keep clogging up my arteries kill me with delight bury me on a velvet embolism / into night.
Courtenay S. Gray is a writer from the North of England. You’ll find her work in an array of journals such as A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Red Fez, Hobart, and many more. She will often post on her blog: www.courtenayscorner.com