Unhappy pretty girls with languid eyes
lusting behind long lashes, their lips stained
with purple and smoke, last night’s kisses
and vodka. Unhappy pretty girls, in love
with both men and women, longing
for the same brand of misery.
They sit in bars gleaming with glass goblets
of gin and tonic, breathing in the gaiety
of strangers in the dark, lives ungraspable
after a distance of two feet. Unhappy
pretty girls who will never
grow flowers in their lungs despite a protest
of menthol cigarettes. The night
turns weary of your sorrow.
The dawn is sick of your solitude.
Morning shies from your breath of coffee.
But you’re a beautiful mess, aren’t you?