Friday, February 20, 2015

This is what makes us girls

Every time we do this feels like the last: dressing up to go out, blood red lips and smokey eyes, pale bare skin under transparent fabrics, short skirts and high heels. Stephanie digging through the closet in her black lace underwear, asking me about every little detail but ignoring my answers.

It's almost too easy. Rome might be as different from Paris as Paris is from LA but the men are always the same, drawn to us like moths to a flame. We burn fast together, in need of brand new kicks each night and it only gets harder with time. When we fall we fall hard but it doesn't matter much 'cause at least we'll know we're still alive.

Henry never called, I thought that he would but he didn't. I quickly deleted the message he left on my Facebook page, like an impulse telling me to rip the wings off the spring's last butterfly. When we run out of Campari it's time to leave, don't be surprised if tomorrow you'll find me breathing at the bottom of the river. 

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