black suit }} l x m x a -blitz
Feb 22, 2018 19:36:24 GMT -5
Post by ᴥ on Feb 22, 2018 19:36:24 GMT -5
LES GOODELL
I despise formalities. Black suits and blood red ties. Fabric tight around my throat with hands glued to rungs of a ladder I was never interested in climbing. I have never known free will, the first few steps into this grave of mine are lost- but I know that they were not willing. All of my decisions are calculated; some complicated algorithm dictating where my heel will next break the pavement and I really didn't want to come tonight. The truth must never grace gently powdered lips, not with these ghost's eyes stuck to my skin. The only freedom left is that behind doors locked tight and windows sealed shut. Outside of them? A storm of lightning and soft thunder, begging for headlines with every soft click of a camera meant for more than documenting every imperfection scattered about my skin.
I know I will die with a camera lens pressed to my temple. Even now, they swarm like flies upon a fresh carcass. Starving for the pestilence, for an excuse to watch the great and the rich turn to rubble at their feet. I barely know her name. The actress I'm meant to be supporting. This is all meant to seem like an innocent gesture of genuine friendship, building bridges made out of candy floss and nothing about me is real. This whole ordeal will be thrown to the wolves, torn apart, friendship morphed into a scandalous affair. Anything to spark interest, to keep our names atop shaking tongues. And when we 'break up' three months later?
Same ending, different story.
It's always been like this. The entirety of my life, dictated by peaks and lows of media interest.
I can't stand her. Austin Rose, entitled starlet who cares nothing for the art that we painstakingly craft. For the influence of movies and the message they sends. She is all designer handbags and luxury bows used only to tie up blond locks insured for a hundred thousand. She's vapid and empty, complacent in how she is used. As an accessory. A product.
And I know we all are, but at least I'm angry about it.
She thrives off it.
It feels odd to wrap my arm around her waist, fingers catching gently in the fabric of her dress. Soft as silk, the best that money can buy. It's ironic, considering my suit is off the sale rack of a thrift store. I simply tell everyone it is vintage and they 'oo' and 'ahh' and pretend that I am so much better than they. Austin's exhibit was not even penned by her own hand, but by an underpaid assistant. It's average at best and I cannot help but notice the walls are stained with the sweat and blood of real artists whom could not afford acknowledgement. Still, I pull her closer to me- playing a part, as I almost always am.
"You're beautiful." I whisper into her ear and she giggles. Soft and sweet. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart." The sooner I can force myself away from her the better. I'm starting to get nauseous.
"Thank you darling."
And once we're done smiling for the cameras I cannot get away fast enough.
I know I will die with a camera lens pressed to my temple. Even now, they swarm like flies upon a fresh carcass. Starving for the pestilence, for an excuse to watch the great and the rich turn to rubble at their feet. I barely know her name. The actress I'm meant to be supporting. This is all meant to seem like an innocent gesture of genuine friendship, building bridges made out of candy floss and nothing about me is real. This whole ordeal will be thrown to the wolves, torn apart, friendship morphed into a scandalous affair. Anything to spark interest, to keep our names atop shaking tongues. And when we 'break up' three months later?
Same ending, different story.
It's always been like this. The entirety of my life, dictated by peaks and lows of media interest.
I can't stand her. Austin Rose, entitled starlet who cares nothing for the art that we painstakingly craft. For the influence of movies and the message they sends. She is all designer handbags and luxury bows used only to tie up blond locks insured for a hundred thousand. She's vapid and empty, complacent in how she is used. As an accessory. A product.
And I know we all are, but at least I'm angry about it.
She thrives off it.
It feels odd to wrap my arm around her waist, fingers catching gently in the fabric of her dress. Soft as silk, the best that money can buy. It's ironic, considering my suit is off the sale rack of a thrift store. I simply tell everyone it is vintage and they 'oo' and 'ahh' and pretend that I am so much better than they. Austin's exhibit was not even penned by her own hand, but by an underpaid assistant. It's average at best and I cannot help but notice the walls are stained with the sweat and blood of real artists whom could not afford acknowledgement. Still, I pull her closer to me- playing a part, as I almost always am.
"You're beautiful." I whisper into her ear and she giggles. Soft and sweet. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart." The sooner I can force myself away from her the better. I'm starting to get nauseous.
"Thank you darling."
And once we're done smiling for the cameras I cannot get away fast enough.
