The bartender sat a swan glass full of peach schnapps in front of me and called me Lolita, though he had never read the book before. He knew enough to know I was one, he said. He knew enough to know that I knew nothing at all. With 23 years, jet black hair and a few broken hearts to my name he said I knew nothing at all. He said not to call anything intense unless it had to do with sex because nothing else should ever be that intense, unless it was fucking.
I sat with my friends beside me and pushed dried up tears into the deserts in my tear ducts and let men buy us shot after shot, knowing that as drunk as my body got, my brain would never follow. I’m not even crying over you anymore is the hard part; I’m crying for my horizon and how long it will take the sun to set. I’m crying for a San Francisco apartment with exposed brick and piano keys. I’m crying for a seemingly endless fall and a chance at a warm December.
I’m crying over losing my Lolita and wanting her gone.