This or that.

The world is a merry-go-round, and she’s riding it with her eyes closed, arms back, and laughing. Her heart is sunshine, pumping warmth into her veins, and her eyes are moons of possibility. She knows it’s not real. She knows she should stop, but right now it’s life. And right now, it feels good. Spinning. Like hope. Like a movie. Loneliness masked by inebriation, and all anyone see with a glance is significance.

The ride jolts, slows a little, she stumbles. Her feet find the ground, and her mind tries to grasp something. Her eyes open and watch the people around her – spinning and laughing. pretending. Hungry eyes, sloppy attempts to connect, rejection. Look at me, there is no pain, look at me, I’m attractive, significant. Distraction. Look how important we can be. We matter so much. They talk about this or that but mostly themselves and they laugh and listen. or try to. They try, too. Inflated chests, tossed hair. They hold onto each other and move to dark corners. Or reach for balance, arms extended and flailing, looking for the base of a tree. Or a toilet. Laughter. Shattered glass. Music. Possession.

She wonders why she’s awake. Slowing. Observing. But she feels like throwing up, and she doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the people, so she takes another shot, closes her eyes, and starts spinning again.


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