I feel the pressure to create bearing down on my skull like a claw hammer. I am not a conquest. And no, I will not be your conquest (yes, you). I am me: flawed and imperfect but somehow still here. Fighting through the misery with Marlboros and earl grey. Bone broke, broken bones; a metaphor for broken imagery, a torn imagination soaked in ***** and blood. Would you still love me if I threw myself down a flight of stairs? Two for one pain, buy one dose, get one free. Ragged breathing, lace collars, four inch pumps and a plastered on lipstick smile.