Saturday, July 15, 2017

los angeles lately :: pt. 3

First, because we are girls,

and then through a trapdoor. 

Down some stairs into a darkened room,

stepping to the sound of aged music I love most.

The bar is solid, unlike my knees that somehow continue to carry me.


I crave the ease of my companions, I long for it like a hand upon the small of a back,

but the closer he stands, the more the ledge of the bar presses into my back, and I want him to step aside, to shut his mouth, to look at another girl.

I can't lose my inhibition if I try.

Not even to the sound of Sinatra.


Another approaches me, twice, and with a kindness I cannot deem sincere because I do not know him. Once more, I wish for him to step aside, to shut his mouth, I don't want to talk about my Romanian adventure any further.

One trip across the globe to the same place is not enough common ground for me, thank you.


And so I watch the girls again -- in all of their naked ease.

I study their slim fingers, balancing slim cigarettes.

I see mountains of ice within multiple glasses that moments ago held mixed drinks with pretty names, like the pretty mouths which consume them,

and the whiskey within my hand and throat warms. 


If I could mimic them for just a night, I think I'd have a ball.

All of that ease. 

Faked or not. 

What a brilliant fucking act, or risk, or wrong. 


I remove the glasses from my face. So that I can hide behind how vulnerable I feel. 

A nakedness unlike that of their ease.

Maybe if I can't see the room, I will finally be seen.


But by whom?

And why would it matter?


There are ten thousand sounds within a bar at any given second,

and all I hear within my ears is the blur of what's around; and, within my mind, Kavinsky plays on eternal repeat. 


They're talking about you, boy, but you're still the same.


So I shift my focus away from where they cast their's on the boys who are still the same;

them in all of their ease and Louboutins;

boys in wrung out confidence and tired entitlement;

the boys Louboutins are worn for;

I swear this is all an observation and not a judgment.

A broken heart for what I know is boring and true.

If the boys are all the same, why should we feel compelled to be as well?

More importantly, why do I?

Why parallel, when one can strike through and break new ground?



I put the damn glasses back on;

I buy another drink;

I long for the one who is overlooked,

because perhaps he will be one to overlook the rest.

Perhaps he only hears Kavinksy, too, when the night is darkest, and Hollywood loudest, and the drinks are splashing hardest against the backs of throats. 


I'd like so much to be like them, as if I could try on a personhood like a thrifted dress. 

And then I hear the song again, I press the glasses to my face, and swoosh the whiskey in my mouth,

and it occurs to me that maybe we all just want to be ourselves,



we just don't know how.

We run parallel because it seems demanded.

What a luxurious freedom individuality would be. 

If it was practiced and not glorified and branded.

How wonderful to know that individuality is not indeed a lie, a threat, or an absurdity. 



First because we are girls,

and not because each of us has something to bring to the table.

Something beautiful, broken and true.

And then through a trapdoor.

A night should always have a trapdoor.


I press the glasses firmly to my face,

so that I can catch a glance of the rare one who is overlooked;

so that I can look to the eyes of girls I'll smile at because I see them and hope they can see themselves, too;

so that I can catch a reflection of myself in the mirror behind the bartender.


I'll smile at myself, too --

beneath the trapdoor. 

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