dose

I am a creature of habit,
the worst of all being my favorite vices.
I love the taste and smell of cigarettes, the very thought comforts me
I drink to celebrate and to mourn, for inspiration, to dance to sing to remember and especially forget.
I make love simply for the pleasure and to save egos that are not my own. I a woman without a type.
My intentions may be misconstrued but are never hidden.
They are upfront, bold print with no fine text. It's not my fault if one reads between the lines.

I am loved, hated, beaten, caressed, mused, fucked.
Unlucky yet eternally blessed.
I am walking chaos searching for peace of mind,
I am sold as is, with no negotiations.

I am alive with no greater purpose but myself
I am dead with self esteem hidden by blaring confidence
I am inspired by the trivial, always yearning for surprises.
I am bigger than the life i lead, but humble to accept my limits.

I have dangerous curves
I am slippery when wet
I am perfect to those who love me
I false idol to all who do not.

I simply am, and whether that is ever good enough is solely up to me.