Summer

The therapy should have started from the moment the cell splits. Shit only gets more riotous, people and parents more desirous, Daughters love their mothers
Daughters hate their mothers
Mothers want to be their daughters
Daughters want to fuck men their father’s hate.
Tiny teens in plastic kitten heels trying to push up the bar, push up the bra, nostalgic underfed super cunt tripping down gang planks to gang bangs to six year olds with toy purses and neon lavender lipstick. Grown up phallic intrusion from that first popsicle, no wonder that girl looks like she needs a dick in her mouth. Dessert suburb, crème brûlée with a side of subdivision sandlot. Tremendously teenaged and huddled round, the ember on that spliff gets closer to the end of the line, each drag bringing the group delicately hurtling into a nostalgia for a time before it was even rolled.
But that feeling of uneasy worthlessness returns today. Once again she finds herself in the reflection of what she assume others may see. I’m no good if no one is there to recognize it, right mom?
She took off maternal bliss, the truth was far more hideous than her subconscious had previewed to her, on freshman year rainy Sundays and unnecessary cigarette anxiety. The sadness, which crept slowly suddenly, had all the force of a shiny SUV piloted 95mph by a gin-breathed mad man.
She was finding herself consumed again and again by her own devices: She would fill in all the space with her desire, till there was no air at all, save the dream lover shaped gap, into which she thrust fool after fool, auditioning them, see if they fit. She dallied with the king of fools, renowned cities over for his notorious behavior. Slick glittered skin and the newest corn silk hair cant make those tripped out deadly tendencies disappear. So despite the false sense of confidence gained at summer’s start, she let him fuck her in a dirty stairwell, in a club deep in Hollywood. Next morning she unwittingly found herself at his alter, slashing each wrist, precisely, so as to give the king as much of her self worth as she could. How trite the tale of a girl who in the face of self-doubt runs, not towards love, but to the illusion of such. The idea being the #1 turn on while the reality would only ever make a generous second best. But so often reason is beat to shit by the need for instant validation. Like bad television and too much weed it numbs the senses. But underneath something is rotting. “I am feeling a lot of things.” She said to no one in particular, but her nature is more of less excess.
Maybe it was better to stay away from substances all together with a family history like hers. With a family like hers. When she’d been alone more she’d felt more transparent, hallucinating beautiful meaning and spitting it out, tattooing it on a page at her discretion. When she had been alone more she saw more of her ribs, now idle all her bones evade her big time big gulp save me. The need to be noticed, the desperate want to be loved, and cherished and needed.
Continually overwhelmed with the pace of change, her nature was still clinging to the familiar. Sickly sweet desperation might make her thirst for a cold glass of water, but thankfully the fine California weather allowed her to stave off the depths until a seemingly far away September. The head will never allow the heart to feel for it has been programmed to rationalize
And
rationalize
And
Rationalize. To analyze each emotion instead of just feeling. “we must champion our discomfort.” She said to her sisters. “embracing it fully we will know the worst.” (the illusion often outweighs the truth) The eldest said knowingly. The summer burned flamelike, leaving nothing as it had been before. Even from her canyon bungalow perch she was seduced by images on her computer’s screen. A relentless parade of the preternaturally beautiful, waifish girls with waist length hair, loved by angel bodied boys with silent film star eyes, driving beat up cars, and wearing the perfectly punk rock black leather jacket. Slight relief came to her mid morning as she sat backwards on her bed, the tangled white sheets heavily perfumed by her skin and just faintly of sex. Staring at her ragged flag she realized (for the second time in years) the truth about these seemingly carefree people, the most of it was an elaborate hoax, beautifully lit.
And the remainder was just a bore.

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