She climbed up boys spines
like ladders. Where did she think

they were leading her? No one
knew. She didn’t tell, she liked

secrets more than vodka. Where did she
sleep? At the top of the ladder, or

on the last rung? She smiled over
cocktails, and said some nights

she fell asleep on a bench in Florence,
whilst others were spent wide

awake, roaming the streets of Paris.
Everyone knew, she’d never

left the country. But she
liked lies more than whiskey shots

someone else paid for. Had she ever
loved? The boys thought

she was too crazy, and that infatuation
was her favorite nighttime treat.

Too buzzed to see, they were
just lies. Another

rung in her ladder. She
said love was a myth, and made

a bad chaser for strong liquors
on nights in France, when she

was too drunk to catch a cab home. She
said those were the nights when she met

beautiful artists. She could only
draw in words, and old ballet

steps, half-forgotten. So she fucked
the painters, like a wild animal

in hopes she could gain perspective
by devouring

carcasses. She never found peace. She
only found pastimes. Like

coffin shopping, and trying to see
colors in the sky that weren’t

there. No one believes me
when I tell them, she used

to be beautiful, and stupid. That she
wasn’t always, empty

sex appeal. They don’t get
it, when I explain she used to

hate alcohol, and be
a ballerina. They only see

her tired fingers– weary from playing
hearts like pianos. But I promise

you. I swear on
my life. Once

upon a time, she was different.
She was a sober minded

moonchaser. And when she
kissed, it meant things.

 

 

 

Molly Likovich is a senior creative writing major at Salisbury University. She has been writing since she was a child, and amongst being an avid reader, interviewing authors for YouTube, and taking literary workshops on campus, it is her goal to be a published author.