She's schizophrenic like an Spring day in Melbourne.
Alluring and sweet at first. But before long you'll be pistol-whipped over the back of the head.
You'll wake to the sound of the blender churning up a potent cocktail of prescription drugs and whiskey. It's cool. The stolen bag of ice should dilute it enough to keep you mostly alive.
Just lie back and think about the dancefloor you were you on earlier.
Was it yesterday? More? Wait, is it light outside? Where's your phone?
The photos won't reveal anything revolutionary, but at one point you looked... happy.
No missed calls. No new numbers. BBQ invitation for 5.
All the weather apps have conspired against each other yet schedule the sun to tease you for a few minutes. Open the blinds. Wait for the hail to clear. Shake off the remaining headache residue en-route to the coffee shop. Check your feeds while you queue. Try and remember if she looked happy too.
You can't keep this up.
