She lit her cancer sticks with the candles that she lit up with her eyes when she was lit up, bouncing up and down on that strangers thighs. So she smiled. When you smile you’re happy and with her it appeared so otherwise her dark eyes wouldn’t have that ****** glow.
Now have you ever thought maybe we women are all actresses and this thing we call life is a performance. Just because she showed some skin didn’t mean she’d decrease her value, as a star it takes lifetimes over lifetimes to dim. So she sat on Venus and talked to the goddess, not a gas planet but she spun on the rings. Living on the edge, almost falling off the rims. After a few times around she did get sad and her world was like Alaska in the winter. Cold and Dark for days after days until that season ended.
But this wasn’t sports, so when would this end. Yes, this wasn’t sports because this wasn’t just a game. Well in the end it was kind of like sports with the angry fans and sweating athletes trying to please people who paid for this event. It was a lot like that last part, pleasing fat angry lonely beer drinking patriotic men. Taking clothing articles and undergarments one at a time off her skin she would try her best to play the game, please the audience and still win.
But what did it mean to win. To get a lump sum of cash like this was a boxing match? It kinda is, to try to reason that living the label of a negative stereotype could somehow be good for you? Beating yourself up on things bad for your body before you fought that bear physically, just so you could leave 30 minutes later with a decent state of mind and to be healthy mentally.
Healthy? Now what is that, a good beating heart to be thin, in america we can’t be fat. But we are, fat in our stacks that go to 1 out of the 100 people that live in this country. Fat, yeah we’re fat inhaling McDonalds because it’s all the other 99% of us can afford. It’s illegal to farm on our own because we might provide something healthy, something that’ll keep us alive.
So this cigarette is as natural as it gets, and the horse tranquilizer inside of it takes her to a prairie where she earned her fake name Black Beauty because that horses eyes reminded her of her own, and when she looked deep enough on a sunny day she could actually see the reflection of herself. And as she takes another hit of the Cadmium she got vibes of energy and flashed back like a campfire flashlight to the days when she carefully inspected the batteries to make sure she was putting them in the remote correctly.
How is it that her careful eye has boiled itself down to making sure a middle aged mans ***** goes inside of her correctly, bandaged with a ****** like her brain will need to be bandaged with gauze because she decided those cigarettes weren’t keeping her sane enough. These men aren’t reliable so she’ll die in the hospital bed she can’t even call her own for she forgot her name. She’s struggling to pay forth for the 1 million dollar X-ray so Mr. 1% can hopefully try that electrifying fish someday. In her last hours she’ll regret every man she let lay a hand on the small of her back, every man she ****** off like a summer snack, every man who labeled her worth on the minutes out of the hour she was there and by the ****** favor.
My lesson here is to never sell yourself like she did, ****** or no ******, a baby and 3 hours of labor is just 18 years of reminding you that 1 hour with you was worth 225 of their dollars, 9 months of your year, and a new label to a single mothered child who would seep infinite tears due to the lack of knowledge of why mother loathes you and why mommy’s eyes are as dark as the words she doesn’t speak to you. And hopefully this child will grow up relieving it’s blues though rhythmetic clues to his or her life, just as I am telling the story of a girl I met and learned for two days who just happened to be a *******.