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The screaming flames added a certain je ne sais quoi to the room. An ambiance if you will. They matched my aesthetic. Yes, my aesthetic was mental illness; no, I didn’t want to talk about it.
I wasn’t born to be a trailblazer. I was born to kill men and suffer.
From their coy smiles and effervescent laughter, they still possessed a will to live. I made a mental note to ask them after the party where they got their energy from. Was it journaling, drinking green juice, or hitting men that kept the light shining in their eyes?
Pain had a funny way of tearing you to shreds, piece by little piece.
My personality traits were: (1) spiteful, (2) bitch.
“Here we go.” Arabella climbed onto John’s bed and started playing the air guitar while shimmying her hips wantonly. She smiled and said, “Get up sluts it’s time to sin.”
“To everyone I’ve done wrong.” She gestured to the room like she was making an announcement. “I just want you to know.” She put a hand over her heart. “I’d do it again.”
“No worries, sun god bless your family.” I gave the stranger a friendly salute. “May you all die young and never know the gods personally.” He gave me a weird look and pushed through the crowd. I scoffed; people just didn’t know how to take a blessing these days.
Physically, I was hideous. Mentally, I was worse. Spiritually, I was a slut. So basically everything evened itself out and I was thriving.
