about six months ago,
i was with the ex-lovers, and the cousin.
sitting outside the museum of contemporary art.
i smuggled weed across the border. together,
we run against dusk,
hiding underneath the tree,
somewhere interesting in North-Sydney.
he then rolls a blunt,
passes it to my friends.
we become numb to its distinctive taste.
i feel reckless ,
i change into another shirt,
one that my mother would not like.
its rare i feel like an average teen.
i then choke on the blunt,
they curse me for being a greedy pig.
so instead i watch
an infant roll amongst the uncut grass.
ten metres away.
(((((we then head back to the party.)))))
later in the evening,
one of the girls cry,
one of the girls flirt with another guy,
the stoner stays with me.
i ask him about her,
what he thought of my runaways shirt he doesn't respond.
it is now just him and i ,
we don't really know each other.
i haven't ever met him before,
i bring him to the dance floor.
except he hates dancing,
so we don't do much of that.
he starts to tell me
you have such nice boobs. i changed back into my old shirt.
i didn't talk to him again.
my father picks me up at around 10,
i play Siberian nights, by the kills
in the backseat of his car.
trying to stay quiet so he doesn't know im high.
i think about two things that evening,
and the scratch marks from the bralette,
forcing me to look a feel a little smaller.
things are not the way they used to be,
parties used to be for dressing up,
now they are made for hooking up.
and every individual is a dog for lust.
I am no exception.
the next night i again wear my forbidden shirt.
man i cant fucking wait until my therapist comes back.