From the suburbs

They call me Nothing.

They call me Stranger, Wicked, they call me Fear.

I am the girl In the back of the pub, sitting right there, next to Mad Jimmy.

I am the girl in the back of the pub, sitting right there, drinking my whiskey.

I am the girl in the back of the pub, crossed legs and thin arms, red dress that hugs my waist ever-so-slightly and confidence that peels out my flesh.

I am the one who is made of skin and bones, carved in blood and loneliness, torn apart by life.

I am a pariah.

I am the girl you call at nights when you want a warm bed.

I am the girl whose bones stick out a little too much, whose eyes bear nothing but contempt and indifference towards other human bodies and whose heart was dropped ten feet underground.

I am the girl whose corpse was found in the motel room you used to share with your other conquests, the girl with PTSD, the girl called: “body found dead at 4 am”.

I am the buzz in your head the sweet vanilla essence that accompanies that young women that have entered right now this place and the sweat and grunts that come from the room upstairs.

I am the core between your legs.

I am the ruthless mind of an assassin, I am a mastermind, I am God, and I am the feeling in your chest that you get when you climb on top of a hill and watch how the sun sets down and the morning turns into night.

And so they call me Nothing.

Because I am only the vague illusion of fear, of strangeness, of doubt, of pain, of melancholy and of utter bliss. 

Author's Note

I probably have a lot of grammar problems ehehehehe.