you don't have to be sorry.

bedside table

I was sad.
so I sit there.
staring into the dusty mirror.
staring back is me.
i pick up my red lip stick, densely lay on the thick texture to my soft cotton sock lips.
i show a pout.
i feel okay, because I don't look like me.
I feel like marylin monroe, or some other pretty misunderstood blonde girl.
I took my mothers rollers out of my hair, bouncing back loose curls of lust.
I try to smile.
but it doesn't work.
so I coat my thin, feather-like lashes in the darkest shade of black I can find.
I look better.
I glance over to my bedside table, yet to re-discover the half eaten sandwich there.
I fixate on it for a moment, then I put the thought in a heart-shaped box, and lock it.
i feel better.
i tease the curls, making small tight knots at the roots, for lift and volume.
I feel loveable.
my white night dress makes me feel better.
the boys would love me.
I dance to my sisters favourite "billie holiday" record relentlessly.
by the end of the night, I've drinked half my body weight in Diet Coke and tired my legs out from dancing like a child.
I lay on my bed, rest my mind on my silk pillow case, and dread tomorrow with constant fear.