Drunken dance romance, unrequited. Shocking pink shadow and black liner trying to be pretty, only to instead be called a whore. Bedroom doorknob, middle of the night turning. Uninvited, unwelcome. Paralyzing fear. White lines, and black guns. Cigarettes, smoked down to the filter. Trying to fix it all, feel better, with brown paper bag whiskey and a shoebox full of little orange plastic white-capped bottles.
Oh I thought of myself as cheap perfume after that.
Until I stopped apologizing.
Not for what I’d done, but for not loving myself.
Compassion and smiles and kind words.
That is what defined me, even then.
Helped me finally see.
I was Chanel all along.
Day 22 A to Z