It was the perfect drug for the times. Mesh traded for lace, traded for nylon stockings, and the best part?
Youth faded. It dulled and conformed, consist-icized to constricted positioning, arguments of logic and the final acceptance of belief, time, and all that consisted of pieces. Pieces of you; pieces of her. Places to please and treasure the time when her boot heels dusted that dance floor, black lace trailing a dream that never blossomed; only her tattoos were hidden after five years under corporate sleeves and that clove cigarette so mystified and died back when the smoking ban killed all forms of self-pacification.
It’s an arrow to the psyche, this welling of feelings and hurt residing from something that sliced through the ego twenty years ago. Zits traded for wrinkles, tongue ring traded for rings around the eyes, and a sigh into the bottom of the last glass of amber solidification.
Perfect drug equals that which made her believe the minivan far exceeded her LeBaron convertible; replaces her secret lover on the beaches of memory. Purple hair dye washed down the drain to maintain that concrete anonymity of Life as it Should Be.
Piss in a barrel, stack cards on top and pick her future. Sensible heels or spiked demeanor. Bills aren’t paid with attitude, honey. Individuality is fucking overrated.
The dream is dead.