incapacitated.

25 October, 2015

we were so happy

doves.

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She is a city in her own right, woven with tired insecurities and things that will never be; but she holds so much hope. She pulses, like the beat of a population, fervently looking up and trying harder. Her skin is stained with neon signs and flashing lights, with catwalks and bar counters - anxious to be held, grateful just for company. On her lips she wears her women, drenched in botox and collagen, puffy from cigarettes and surgery - letting her poison leave its mark. And when she walks by, it smells like new cars and old money.

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