29th June. Am.

Jun 29, 2008 - 00:29 AM PST
There is a song playing, filling the room. There is black make-up smudged beneath my eyes and across my cheeks. Waterproof, it says on the tube, but it doesn't say tearproof. They should warn you, the people who make these stupid products. Don't use if you're going to cry. Or, don't even bother to make yourself look pretty.
He's singing about Amsterdam, and a woman who broke his heart. I wish I had a plane to catch this morning, to take me as far away as possible from all this smudging and emptiness and waste. I feel like a canvas portrait, a cheap, rough something or anything, a mess of blackness and whiteness.

You should feel honoured, proud even. Not many people have reduced me to this.


29th June. Am.


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