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To play house in a hotel takes certain levels of insanity. Burn yourself a few times to make sure you’re alive. The vending machiene is the kitchen stove, coffee maker, mini fridge, several mirrors. Count every mirror. Did you hear her say she didn’t love you? She said it loud and clear with her eyes, that glare. Stone blue silence.
Blonde, spike, fire, nothing. Sleeping in studs. I had the rest of my days to spend between holidays. Between wishes, between loving and leaving. Between finding myself somewhere on the Lower East Side at 4 A.M. and being tucked safely into your bed. Four flights of stairs, the fire escape is the same as the way we always came up. No one cares if it tears you apart or eats you alive. She Wants Revenge soundtrack, gypsy taxis.
Didn’t anyone ever tell you?
Never Love a Cowboy.
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