I huddled into the corner,
shaking hands and uncontrollable convulsions.
I can see the bottle piled high from floor to dresser.
My rouge lipstick is fighting a battle with a forced pucker from my mouth - in the end she wins - I don't even bother to wipe my chin to remove the excess. I look at the clock, it's almost twelve and I cannot keep a client waiting. Some may say my job is a rebellion, my war against the world for leaving me empty handed. No, it's my antidote. I strive on the rush it gives me regardless of what the wear and tear has done to my body.
Outsiders see no gratification in my reasoning for wearing whiskey on my breath, tightening a corset to make my bust bigger, or let a stranger feed me the ecstasy that drives me to eternal bliss. We all define qualities in our life by individual experiences. I have never apologized for not seeking contentment through feeding the homeless, finding a soul mate, or dancing the night away- those things we never the type of enjoyment that fulfilled my voids.