da club.

25 Apr

Smoke like oil fills every inch. It’s in my clothes, my hair, my lungs. It’ll take three shampoos just to get the stench out. Music like drums beats in my ears and thuds throughout my body, rattling my ribcage and making me wonder why I’m here. Heads turn, looking my group of friends and I up and down like we’re paper dolls ready to be played with and then thrown into the trash. I can’t even meet their eyes. It burns. They hover in circles, picking their prey, waiting for the kill- if they’re lucky. It’s all a game really, one big game where the ultimate prize is feeling good at the expense of another person. Bodies move and sway, so tightly packed it seems like one hideous movement. Everything in me hates the shameless external exploitation, hates the way he asks for my name and is too drunk to ever remember it ( “Anne” I tell him) and the way he pretends to care and the way people think they can buy a relationship for $8. It doesn’t work like that.  It’s just an illusion of intimacy, a cheap one. For some it’s lust, but for most it’s loneliness. Strip everything away, and all that’s left are sad people who just want to feel someone elses skin on their own, to know they’re not alone, to know that somehow they too are still human.


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