Cherry red lips and whiskey and cigarettes, bruised lips and burning and smoke.

Panting, moaning, being so needy, grinding desperately, it's her drug, one of them.

White powder, cigarettes, bottle of whiskey and a stack of bills on the desk. She doesn't fuck until she gets all four things.

She's ruined herself, maybe, but she was never the good girl in the first place. She didn't grow up with rainbows and unicorns, or honey it's your first play we'll come watch. She didn't grow up with my daughter's talented, my daughter is beautiful, my daughter is so artistic. She didn't grow up with that's my daughter, right there, with the invisible glitter and sparkles in her hair. She grew up with you fucking bitch, i told you to get me some more whiskey, now damn it, get me some more you whore. She grew up with hey little girl, this white powder's harmless, it's like salt, come try some. She never asked why it was supposed to go up her nose instead of in her mouth, she was too young. She grew up with if you're in a play, i'll never come see it, you'll be the slut, you won't be perfect.

She believed it, she believed that she wasn't perfect. If people told her she was perfect, she'd scream at them, tell them perfect is horrible, fuck off, i don't want to be perfect. They'd stare at her like she was c r a z y, and she was, she was completely crazy.

When she was fourteen, she meets a perfect boy named Beck. He's attracted to her, apparently, attracted to her black clothes and her bitchy attitude. She's got a cigarette hanging out of her mouth when he meets her, white against cherry red lips.

They fuck against his RV that night, and it's cold, but her skin's so hot against the cold metal, and she loves the way he grips her hips so tightly. She whispers harder, faster but he doesn't obey, he can't go for another round while she could go for fourteen more rounds after they come.

She doesn't tell him two things that night.

The first thing is that she believes she loves him, loves the way his name rolls off her tongue, loves the way their bodies fit just ohsoperfectly even though she's not perfect.

The second thing is that it was her first time, and she lies about the blood running down her legs afterwards.

She's a good liar. Not perfect, because she's not perfect.

But the next day, she's gone.


Yes, she's ruined herself, but it's how she lives.

She's not sugar and spice and everything nice.

She's imperfectly perfect.

Every night, she's there, at that bar.

Her lips are cherry red and bruised, asking for rounds and rounds of drinks while she flirts with the bartender.

He glances at her every now and then, sees that smirk he saw nine years ago, sees her imperfectly perfect blue eyes and brown hair.

That night, of course she's fucking the bartender, 'cause it was some over the top flirting she was doing.

When they're finished, she's too tired to get up, and he gently grabs her hand and sees a tiny tattoo on her pinky, it says "B".

She snarls, he falls asleep, and the next day, she's gone.

Just like nine years ago, only this time, he thinks he's fallen in love with her.

But he sees that the second pillow on his bed is wet, spotted with tears.

He never thought she was imperfectly perfect. She decided that she was imperfectly perfect, because she couldn't be perfect, she wasn't, and so being imperfectly perfect wasn't the same thing.

He thought she was completely perfect.


She finally looks at her phone, and she sees one text. It's from a blocked number.

i love you

And she breaks down, and the tears are dotting her face, making her face all sparkles and glitter like she never wanted it to be.

She'll keep running, of course, she can't let him catch her.