"Tearing through a hundred pages, what a tale of star-crossed lovers. Life is lived on other stages. Ships and princes all gone home. Alone again."
I always thought wine was supposed to stain your lips a seductive red, but mine are as bruised and purple as the grapes they are born from, typically. Late nights in the living room with a bottle to myself and twenty candles on the floor, and if I choose my music and book carefully, I could pull off the act that I chose to be alone tonight. Unless I count as five girls. Why are twenty burning flames so much more interesting to watch than two-hundred channels on the television? Their orange glows melt into one sea of fire that hushes me into awe, eclipsed by the boulder of my body, silently watching the light and licking my purple lips, hoping they will fade into an attractive pink so maybe something could work out for me, just for once. New age, African beats with some ambiance undertones to fool myself into believing that I'm a free soul, maybe I should paint with my fingers while I'm at it, but who am I kidding? These stubby things will just create blobs on any canvas. I'll wrap my hair into a messy bun and wear my glasses to show myself that I'm independent and secure, that I don't need to impress anyone because I have so much going for me. And just maybe cook up a simple pasta and convince myself it's sophisticated, and I'll ignore the ache in my chest, the stinging in my eyes, and god forbid I feel even the slightest bit of self-pity. No, none of that. I'll sit on the sofa, allow it to sink beneath my weight, and look out the window and into the city skyline, wondering why, until I finally muster up the courage to accept that yes, I am alone. Then I'll pick myself up, stagger under the weight of my body and heart- each as heavy as the other, and run my fingers along the hallway to my room, until I find the sanctuary of my bed- Where I can escape and feel absolutely nothing, even for just a few hours.
