She is a hot mess — but you can barely see it from the outside. A smear too much lipstick, eyeliner pushed on by too unsteady of a hand, and collarbones that push too close against her taught skin.
She prides herself on her ability to blend in, the invisibility cloak she wears all too well — a perfectly normal appearance to those who know her as a sister, daughter, friend, or lover.
She needs that false comfort, the lack of questions towards the hot emptiness she feels inside of her, burning away at her emotions.
Enough layers of meaningless shit can surely dampen the burn, she thinks. If it fooled so many on the outside it is only a matter of time until the guise fools her too and becomes a reality.
She thinks she can find love from the bottom of a bottle. The world always looks better through rose colored glasses. With whiskey in her bloodstream she can conquer the world, she can be anyone, she can do anything, she becomes free.
She is free to be a terror to herself, but she knows the risk — calculates it even — but she goes ahead with impulse because that is her release.
It is all a game to her… Catching a stranger’s glance lights a fire in her eyes. She craves the attention, lives for the chase. Each fuck is a thrill to her, satisfying an inner need deeper than primal desire, but it is never enough.
Nothing, no one, feels quite right. Whatever she is looking for is still missing. Was she ever really looking for something in the first place?
Her confusion trades places with anger, then circles back to confusion. She can no longer pinpoint the source of this void, this dark swell within her inner being… she begins to resent it, to resent herself.
She goes from one partner to the next, only temporarily satisfied when she feels full with him inside of her. She becomes flighty, her interest can’t be held before she becomes afraid that she isn’t good enough.
Second guesses and insecurities barricade anything from ever becoming more than just a fleeting moment in her story. She is the product of hurt, and in turn only knows how to hurt those around her.
She reels them in, and spits them out. She successfully builds a stone wall against future hurt. If she has no heart, how can it be hurt?
She jokes that she isn’t fucked up, but she wants someone that she can scream it to. She wants someone to see through the proud exterior, and see her internal struggle.
She craves this, but she can never trust someone long enough to let go and truly be. So she fucks. She repeats her cycle like a lost girl, continuously searching for the key that will calm the burn in her heart.