#*nhledit

she’s a party, she’s a wildfire, she’s an enigma. she skips down the streets, greeting those she passes, yet somehow always seems taken aback when someone speaks to her first. a walking question, the intangible concept; just when you think you know her, she does something to take you by surprise. it feels as if she’s been everywhere, as if she knows everyone, as if she’s a socialite in a grungy body. beneath black leather there’s delicate lace, pearls adjusted with chipped black polish. everyone is her friend until she decides otherwise. when she does, run.

rouge on her eyes and rosé in her hand, petite in every way, she remains the focus of the room. always ready with a joke and a smile, unafraid to make a fool of herself in the name of inclusion and happiness; she’s an unconventional blessing in this conventional town. she is not docile; a raw, feral energy crackles between her fingers and ribs. she is tired of the dissatisfaction, she is tired of being judged by men, men, men. she hooks her arm with yours, an unexpected whiff of chanel no. 5 twinkling across your nose, heels loud on quiet streets. she’s a storm; count yourself lucky to have her eye.

she’s manhattan penthouse classy with daydreams and big pictures. she walks a head above the rest, champagne and dior a cloud around her. the streets are gold beneath her heels, the smog is candy floss as it brushes across her skin. everyone loves her, everyone else loves to hate her; how could you not? she’s walking opulence, shimmers and tradition, her name emblazoned in suite boxes and museum galleries. what she doesn’t tell you is her money is running out, and this is her last hurrah. when she can continue the façade no longer, remember her as she was. 

washington dc isn’t some fairytale but she acts like it is. swanning through, rubbing elbows with politicians, baseball players, even the common folk with charities and image-minded appearances. she’s a task-taker, a mind-breaker, someone who knows what she wants and she’s going to get it. she’s tired of being pushed around in this boys club, and she woke up one cold october, painted deep blue lipstick in a promise on her lips, and decided this was the year she’d stop just taking what was thrown at her. money, alcohol, devilish promises, and clumsy bets, however, eventually will catch up to her. will you? 

she dances everywhere she goes, the music of her city thrumming in her veins; she’s alive with every pluck of the string, every twist of the bow. her fingers dance lightly over shoulders and spines, a softness belying her loud, mercurial laughter. she’s one of the boys, and she can hold her own, yet there is an undeniable delicateness to her. she is soft, in the pale yellows of her garden, between rounds of beer and shots of whiskey. catch her sitting on the hood of her car, covering a zac brown band song and watching the stars. catch her lazing on a sunday in a bed that isn’t hers. catch her, catch her; you should be so lucky. 

separated by water from manhattan prowess, she remains a socialite in her own right. her people are those who dance on tables and sing too loud in the streets; those with streetlamps and starlight caught in thick curls. she is the one to tell you the best food vendors in the entire neighborhood; the one to casually walk you by her old school and point out spike lee’s studio. she’s been rubbing elbows with the greats for her entire life, and she shifts so easily, gliding in and out of social spaces and graces. perhaps there is desperation in her changes; perhaps she fights against the inevitable: the erosion of time.

she is regal, tired, and cold. she finds herself wandering marble halls, built with the strong, capable hands of her foremothers. she lives a life of pale and faded luxury. a ruling princess of a small, isolated country, she’s a familiar sight to her subjects. gold clings to her fabric and skin, a shimmering sight of what once was. her eyes are a kind of lazy intensity as a barnyard cat stalks a sparrow. the weight of the old gods settles on her shoulders, heeled footsteps following her through the misty cities and towns. cobblestone streets connect her parliament buildings to the sea. her life is no fairy tale.

coffee brewed extra strong, two extra shots, almond milk creamer and airpods firmly affixed to her ears. paint splatters her leggings and sweaters, a full face of glossier, chipped nail polish that she fills in with a multitude of other colors. you can find her in her studios, yes, plural, both equally covered in paint. her journals never leave her side, and she’s always down for brunch, provided alcohol will be there, of course. with three poetry books in the works, she’s a busy woman, yet she makes time out of her schedule to see you. look at the stars with her; see how they shimmer in the blood on her lips?