Prostitution. crying. sleepless nights alone. Anorexia spinning the empty tables. Who am I but shame? The only time I'm me is when I haven't slept for three days. Countless cups of tea, shots of vodka, bowl packs of mary jane, and cigarettes as my only true saviors. If you don't know me, get to know me. My coming of age of story? More like my crawling out of a Motel Six, bedroom hymn .
Y'know... a lot of people have told me,
"I could write a book about my life. What with all the shit that's gone down in my life? Yeah?"
My aunt told me this the other week, and I suppose I believe her, but I'm not her. So how can I write her story? I just can't, because mine is a story worth telling. In all honesty, before I begin... I only know one thing to be true about my life:
I hold this unchangeable reality, to be self evident. I hold my soul in my hands, forever trying to undo these deeds that I myself have indeed done. In the overbearing hopes, that tomorrow will bring a new day.
See, they won't teach what I know in school. Not the one you've been to anyway. They won't tell you how to feed a man love and affection, or how to sell your body. They won't teach you how to dance with the devil, and smoke Crack. They won't teach you how to survive, or how long it takes to discover your inner beauty, from the even more inward pain.
If you really don't feel like reading a true story, about a Seventeen year old teen, who's had three sugar daddies, a battle with drugs/alcohol, and a little black book full of Johns, then go blind, it's too late.
All you can choose is to read on.
