Aug 2013
Tonight, I am afraid.
I am afraid because I had a piece of toast 13 hours ago, and there's nothing left in the fridge except some horrible strawberry liqueur, which I am drinking despite the fact that it feels like acid in my empty stomach. Me, I'm 5 feet 11 inches, 112 pounds, blue-eyed with longish blonde hair. I'm hungry, but it appears that New York doesn't feed outsiders. So I'm listening to Leonard Cohen on Leonard Street because that's the only thing I can think of that makes sense right now. Smoking in bed, my small luxury. I had a neighbor who leaves me toast and coffee in the morning, except I haven't seen him in a while and I'm too proud to knock on the door and ask for food. It's strange, leaving a perfectly ordinary life for this desperation, this skinny **** that I thought was important but now just makes it hard to climb the stairs. I'll make it, though, right? It's almost September and that's when I'm supposed to make money. Money. I just wanted to go to Italy again, feel the life I should never have left again. So okay I’ll be their clothes hanger, their one-man show, walk a pretty walk for them, and then go somewhere else. Except right now I'm considering the hospital, that sweet IV that will keep me nourished. I can't afford a taxi though, and I don't know what is I’d tell them- “Hi I'm 20 years old, broke, starving, alone, and afraid to sleep because I don't know if I'll see another day”- I think they would send me to the psych ward instead. I don't know, I am supposed to be a hybrid of girlish innocence and feminine mystique, but all I really want is someone to put me to bed and watch me sleep so I know I'll be safe. It's 3:26 am. I have no one to call. It's just Leonard Cohen and I on Leonard Street, singing through dry lips and fading into the white of the sheets. If I called for help, I doubt they'd find me in the bed. I'm here, though, I'm here.
I am afraid because I had a piece of toast 13 hours ago, and there's nothing left in the fridge except some horrible strawberry liqueur, which I am drinking despite the fact that it feels like acid in my empty stomach. Me, I'm 5 feet 11 inches, 112 pounds, blue-eyed with longish blonde hair. I'm hungry, but it appears that New York doesn't feed outsiders. So I'm listening to Leonard Cohen on Leonard Street because that's the only thing I can think of that makes sense right now. Smoking in bed, my small luxury. I had a neighbor who leaves me toast and coffee in the morning, except I haven't seen him in a while and I'm too proud to knock on the door and ask for food. It's strange, leaving a perfectly ordinary life for this desperation, this skinny **** that I thought was important but now just makes it hard to climb the stairs. I'll make it, though, right? It's almost September and that's when I'm supposed to make money. Money. I just wanted to go to Italy again, feel the life I should never have left again. So okay I’ll be their clothes hanger, their one-man show, walk a pretty walk for them, and then go somewhere else. Except right now I'm considering the hospital, that sweet IV that will keep me nourished. I can't afford a taxi though, and I don't know what is I’d tell them- “Hi I'm 20 years old, broke, starving, alone, and afraid to sleep because I don't know if I'll see another day”- I think they would send me to the psych ward instead. I don't know, I am supposed to be a hybrid of girlish innocence and feminine mystique, but all I really want is someone to put me to bed and watch me sleep so I know I'll be safe. It's 3:26 am. I have no one to call. It's just Leonard Cohen and I on Leonard Street, singing through dry lips and fading into the white of the sheets. If I called for help, I doubt they'd find me in the bed. I'm here, though, I'm here.
