“You look so dishevelled.”
I like it like that. Guess what I was up doing late last night, why my hair is falling in imperfect waves. My index fingernail is broken, the rest of them are longer than acrylics from a nail salon. Ask for that story, it’s filled with blood and tragedy. After all, what’s worse than a broken nail? No I will not be a clean girl with slicked back hair and glass skin. Let them ask why your neck has smudges of sparkly maroon lip-gloss. Let them shade match it to my lips.
Prim and proper were never words I aspired to be. What is life, if not a little bit unravelled?
Hair wisps flying everywhere, wrinkles in yesterday’s t-shirt. Pockets reserved for toffee wrappers, big bangles cluttering small wrists. Fingers kissed blue from the last pen that fell in love with me. Laugh on the wrong side of raw. Smile on the right side of bright. Confessions after too much tequila. Golden liquor silver smoke, let it end in tears and hearts that broke. I miss him I miss him I miss him. Lipstick stains on all my straws. Dream catcher feathers tangled up in fairy lights. Bright eyes smeared kohl dark, hungry mouth stained lollipop red. Messy messy messy. Blur me like the edges of your favourite old polaroid. Dim the lights, light the candles. Ask me to stay.
“You look so dishevelled.”
I hate it. There’s knots in my hair and craters under my eyes. We fought till 3 am and then I couldn’t sleep. Kept waiting for the phone to ring. Kept checking if I accidentally put it on vibrate. I stare at my reflection. Chipped nail polish, smudged lip liner. No wonder you left. I take the longest shower of my life. I unravel the knots in my hair. I put on a face mask. I clean my room. My index nail has grown out to match the rest. I do french tips after years. I’m a clean girl when I lay on my clean bed. My notes are colour coordinated to pastel highlighters. Questions in black answers in blue, but you won’t answer, I’ve called, I’ve texted and now I have cleaned.
My hair falls in silky perfection. I don’t wear maroon lip-gloss anymore, it smudged too often. You’re the only mess left in this room, and you need to go. I know that, and you know that too. I could delete your number but I’d have to pretend I don’t have it memorised. You touch me like I’m made of glass and I shatter to the floor in a thousand pieces. I’m a mess too now. And I’m your mess. My smile is your favourite old polaroid. You dim the lights and light the candles. I’ve asked you to stay.I know its short but I don’t know if I want it to be longer rn so we’ll figure that out along the way)