she was on her third glass of wine
and felt the dizziness set in
comfortable fatigue
she just wanted to
she
wanted
couldn't remember


but she was used to writing in third person now
she always thought that way
for she really was
another person
writing about her thoughts
autobiography
seeing it played before her
like an old school silent film
but without the wigs
the overdramatized expressions
the emphatic makeup
detached
she thought about getting pregnant
or buying a eight packs of cigs
and chain smoking them till she threw up
or shaving her head except a rat's tail
on the side like a punk 80s chick
and dying it turquoise
in a braid
with some cheap florida seashells
ugly
yet different
she was sick of herself
she was so...
so sickeningly cookie-cutter
she couldn't even remember where the damn cookie
had come from
or if it were christmas trees
gingerbread men
or stars
she was, overall, just bored
or tired
of this
of sameness
of always living on the etherical outside
where everyone lives anyway
and dreaming of a skinny boy
who would steal her soul
and eat it
maybe it would give him the runs
maybe he would 
contaminant the water-supply
with her spirit
but she was brain dead
nothing really changes
sameness
ever
drink me life
feed me soul
but there were no roses planted in her eyes
just cactus and scrubs
her cheeks forgot to bloom
and desert beauty only lasts so long
she longed for
a monsoon wedding
she was still in love
(whatever the hell that is)
and hated herself for it
for noone else could compare
and she cannot bear the thought
even for a minute
of anyone seeing her naked
which leaves only a blind man
or a blindfold
or