ode to my first love, or the sins of sauvignon blanc
he sits there, too smug and serene
there is light which shimmers from him, reflecting my thirsty eyes
i pour him in and wait for a kick in the teeth
he is my literal drug, he is my laughter and he is my tears
he is my phone call at midnight, he is my regretful morning after
he is a bucket, he is my slathered hair slapping my face as i curse my stomach
he is my mother's disapproval but he is the apple that didn't fall far from my father's tree
i am shaking limbs, hot clammy hands, thudding beats and 'where the fuck are ryan and fran i can't see them across this dancefloor'
i am dizzy eyes, dizzy feet and 'oh my god i hate my life, why am i here, please take me home'
i am a dress that rips, a mouth ripe for another, and 'taxi taxi, there's a girl who's pissed'
saturday morning and he is obstinatly empty
just glaring at me for my friday mistakes.
how depressing: i write better poetry (albeit only slightly better) drunk than i do sober. my literary pursuits are just laughable. i'm really quite tired now and not in the best mood in the world for reasons i won't go into because i never wanted this blog to be a place where i could channel my inner-emo. i don't even have an inner-emo, i'm just basically happy all the time, which is why on the rare occasions when i'm not, like today, i feel really pissed off. and then i get mad at myself for being pissed off because really i don't even have a good reason, i just feel useless and talentless. and i can't even be arsed with trying to write an interesting blog because right now i don't have anything of note to say, and even if i did i'm not really sure that anyone would care.
i promise i'll be happier tomorrow. reading sarra manning (guilty teen fiction pleasure alert) is cheering me up already.
victoria, x
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