Over Hung

Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The side that faces a cracked disco mirror, mutating my split reflection like a Jekyll and Hyde.

In the mirror I saw a girl I hardly recognized. The wholesome brunette that used to smile back is now a bleached out has been with pink lipstick smeared around the lines of my lips indicating anther's mouth was there. Who knows who he was, or if it was even a man for that case. I've been known to kiss anything these days that show me some sort of attention or affection.

Under my blankets is the wrinkled 80's prom party dress that is ripped in the back and there are runs in my fishnets achieving that overall punk rock girl look, but it was not meant to be intentional. And while other girls might strive to achieve this look, mine was forced upon me.

I can not remember the details of last night, only memories. The drinking, the partying. Pill popping, nauseating, vomit inducing after glow while swapping spit with a pimply faced teen age boy delivering pizza's to our den of iniquity.

On my hand is a phone number written in sharpie, but the last two numbers are too smudged and I can't figure out if they end in zero seven, or eight and two.

Littering my floor are booze bottles, overthrown blankets that took part in a passion throw down no less and peanut shells from our last call post drinking chow.

When will I ever learn to throw it all in and reform to the poster girl my parents once wanted me to be?

No, that girl is dead. The only one that remains is the one in the cracked mirror. The girl with champagne coursing through her veins, with powder dried in her nose. The girl whose heart is bleeding but can no longer feel.

I am that girl...