hmd, part 3

a single night.

five friends.

four cocktails.

two main events (one strange but entertaining, one shameful).

walking around trying too hard. like wearing a badge.

my hair was pinned back and it felt like i was made entirely of eyes.

the words graceful and sinful, they seem to interlock like puzzle pieces. sliding out of the mouth so easily.

this is not what matters. i hope my big mouth doesn't get me into trouble. playing it cool turns brittle when you're being questioned about something you would give anything to make inconsequential. i don't even know him.

nighttime on the couch was mostly satisfied. there will always be something to want, but i carried home with me the strangest satisfaction. listened to the cure and sang until my throat hurt.

surreal sunday morning. too much gin, cigarettes still scraping at my chest, someone's lips on my surprised mouth, 38th street fuzzy behind dry eyes.

i would like to reiterate that a man's word is his bond, and i'm still busy being that girl.