She doesn’t understand the world.
She just sighs and relights that cigarette she knows she shouldn’t be smoking. From the shadows on the twenty-fourth step of this red-velvet lined staircase, she watches the rest of the world spin on.
No one’s eyes can detect her dark silhouette from the shadows. Laughing in merry oblivion, they pass her by. Silk glides through the air on delicate high-heeled, strappy sandals climbing up and down the steps around her, balanced on the arms of sharply pressed and tailored tuxedos, with fake smiles.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Ashes spread all over her satin get-up, as she flicks the end of her cigarette carelessly. She slides her fingers through her messy black hair. Just a nest of tangles and bobby pins from an up-do that was stunning just five minutes ago.
That tiny chip in her red manicure catches her eye as she lays her hand back atop her knee. The smile that transforms her lips is bitter. Perfection is intangible. So with a cigarette dangling from her fingers she chips at the polish until that tiny chip is a large gash.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Or why trying to cope without tears is just as effective as trying to swim without limbs. But she’s determined not to cry. Even though no one would know.
But her.
The smoke starts stinging her nose. Chanel doesn’t mix well with cigarettes. The fume is sickening. So she puts out her cigarette on the bottom of her Louboutin. And from the shadows she tosses the butt over the railing.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Or why a girl like her should even try. Why even stop to ponder, such a trite issue? What with the rest of the world twirling and laughing on the dance floor below her? None of them find reason to crawl into the shadows to wallow in confusion.
A tuxedo meets her eye. She feels caught, like a cat with a wing hanging out its mouth. But immediately her eyes cloud back over and she smiles automatically. Continuing to climb the red velvet lined staircase, he smiles back.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Because no one looks long or hard enough to see anything behind her brown eyes. No one cares to see anything beyond their glassy exterior. And then she wonders if maybe all there ever was, all there really is, is a glassy exterior.
Those brown glass windows begin to fill with tears. But she doesn’t let them fall. That would ruin her mascara.
She doesn’t understand the world.
She finds herself lighting another cigarette that she knows she shouldn’t be smoking. Her throat is raw she takes another rough drag.
But she doesn’t understand the world and she’s tired of trying. Just not quite ready to crawl back out of the shadows.
She just sighs and relights that cigarette she knows she shouldn’t be smoking. From the shadows on the twenty-fourth step of this red-velvet lined staircase, she watches the rest of the world spin on.
No one’s eyes can detect her dark silhouette from the shadows. Laughing in merry oblivion, they pass her by. Silk glides through the air on delicate high-heeled, strappy sandals climbing up and down the steps around her, balanced on the arms of sharply pressed and tailored tuxedos, with fake smiles.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Ashes spread all over her satin get-up, as she flicks the end of her cigarette carelessly. She slides her fingers through her messy black hair. Just a nest of tangles and bobby pins from an up-do that was stunning just five minutes ago.
That tiny chip in her red manicure catches her eye as she lays her hand back atop her knee. The smile that transforms her lips is bitter. Perfection is intangible. So with a cigarette dangling from her fingers she chips at the polish until that tiny chip is a large gash.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Or why trying to cope without tears is just as effective as trying to swim without limbs. But she’s determined not to cry. Even though no one would know.
But her.
The smoke starts stinging her nose. Chanel doesn’t mix well with cigarettes. The fume is sickening. So she puts out her cigarette on the bottom of her Louboutin. And from the shadows she tosses the butt over the railing.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Or why a girl like her should even try. Why even stop to ponder, such a trite issue? What with the rest of the world twirling and laughing on the dance floor below her? None of them find reason to crawl into the shadows to wallow in confusion.
A tuxedo meets her eye. She feels caught, like a cat with a wing hanging out its mouth. But immediately her eyes cloud back over and she smiles automatically. Continuing to climb the red velvet lined staircase, he smiles back.
She doesn’t understand the world.
Because no one looks long or hard enough to see anything behind her brown eyes. No one cares to see anything beyond their glassy exterior. And then she wonders if maybe all there ever was, all there really is, is a glassy exterior.
Those brown glass windows begin to fill with tears. But she doesn’t let them fall. That would ruin her mascara.
She doesn’t understand the world.
She finds herself lighting another cigarette that she knows she shouldn’t be smoking. Her throat is raw she takes another rough drag.
But she doesn’t understand the world and she’s tired of trying. Just not quite ready to crawl back out of the shadows.
3 Back Talkers:
This is wonderful.
Thank you!
Sure Cigarettes and Chanel don't go together? I like that smell.
Maybe because I am a 20/30 a day man.
Cigarettes and coffee is always a winner though
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