Lackluster

Glamor, they said you would get. Bright lights and noise
and sequins that reflected the stagelights all the way to the floor.

Tall buildings, you said you had always dreamed of. A brightly lit New York skyline,
wine in tall glasses on Tuesday nights at 3am. Taxis to take you home from work on rainy days back to your apartment, where men would wait to open doors for you.

You would get to travel the world like you always wanted. From San Francisco to Rome in Business Class, of course. They would serve you tiny dishes with utensils you had never seen, a spoonful of romance for dessert.

Cities of love, cities of lights, cities of life.




How long was it after you stepped out of that crowded bus after a sixteen-hour drive
before you realized that your lipstick smeared and the glitter from your dress fell off when you walked?
And the tall buildings still seemed so far away as you stumbled, drunken and alone, down the street at 3 am back to your apartment, your small, white shoes blackening in the sludge,
to shove a frozen dinner haphazardly into the microwave while you washed the makeup off your face in the sink

grimly waiting for the morning when you'd do it all over again

except with a hangover this time.