July (Part One) - Hotel Books

I sat down with her and she told me her story.

I told her I loved her and I just wanted to support her through her recovery.

Through conversations, I listened, and I feel like this is the best way to

interpret what she told me.

The devil found clever way to infiltrate and bring his manipulation;

a slender blonde in a cocktail dress struggling through the intoxication

brought on by the gifting of drinks until she was ready to payback in the

bedroom.

In the search to appease the demons in her head on a sterile surface in the

bathroom.

Looking into a half cracked half filthy mirror hoping she doesn’t reflect

that half cracked and half filthy receding stain of a smile her mother made

when she left

because the promises she made to herself seem to be the hardest ones to keep

and knowing she survived the last storm was no longer all she needed to be able

to fall asleep.

Vacant wine glasses and late night crashes symbolic of her vessel with no

presentation at the pallet,

but a spirit starving for remembrance some sort of legacy other than her

occupation.

Because her normal skin looked like silk but had been masked by vengeance.

Baggage under her eyes deep within her overcompensating lies and all she saw

when she gazed into the endless skies was regret from that manipulation.

This life of sleeping through the static of practice for the everlasting rush

she hoped for,

she was somewhat ecstatic, but not for the first time.

Because this was reminiscent of those times that she would have those late

night drives;

Those moments when she would look back and say «How did I get here?»

Those moments when she would look at old childhood photos and say «How did that

child grow up to be like this?»

When did I dismiss the morals that I subscribed to?

I don’t know what to do.

And she looks at photos of her beautiful mother in her youth and is envious of

that smile she had when she was twenty-two.

And she wishes she could say the same for herself but she’s lived in a

self-perpetuated hell.

Because she took the literal stains and the literal scars and turned them into

the emotional drain and then she fell apart.

And I’ve never really been one for taking second chances on times that I’ve

been broken

but sometimes forgiveness needs to be put in place for someone to actually grow

from these negative emotions,

and all that constructive use of the pain that’s thrown at you is the only way

to find refuge.

So I’m gonna tell you this darling, every time you tell yourself that you’re

not worth it,

every time you tell yourself that you’re worthless, you’re being lied to.

And in that case, the liar is you.