A music box tinkles out a single note melody while you paint your lips blood red. You’ve heard that sing-song nursery rhyme one too many times and it’s time to put it in its grave; you stand up in a stilted yet determined manner, throwing the music box against the wall, watching as the spinning ballerina shatters.
There will be no one to save you in this story except yourself and maybe not even then - this is real life after all, not a fairy tale. You hope against hope, wringing a lace trimmed handkerchief in your hands, that maybe that pretty girl with those sunny freckles down her back and sad eyes will come with you for a while.
You grab your drink off the vanity; you drink and drink and drink but whisky sours don’t erase pain and designer eyeshadow doesn’t cover up your ugly soul.
BQ2016