Absolution

   I walk into the "gothic hipster" hallway of The Crying Wolf where the spirit of Emily Newton drips from the dimly lit, peeling wallpaper. My skin cells are composed of nicotine and an assortment of stout beers. And Bun (too much Bun). My makeup is flawless. I am overcompensating. I am reminded of this every time I glance over at Herb Williams' technicolor dog howling at our Mystical Moon God who is always meeting me in Dreamland to remind me of my inheritance. I am Jonah in the belly of a Vodka bottle. Meanwhile, inside the walls of my intestines, false words of affirmation from the fingers of Tinder-hearted men imprint themselves like rough sex carved into the chipping paint of a bathroom stall.

 "I want to go down on you tonight. 

  Baby."

  The kind messages call you nice things, like "Baby". 

  The unkind messages call you mean things, like "Bitch". 

  The bartender is attractive.

  I like to pretend I want to touch his neck and bite his ears and sink my fingernails into his fleshy back. I vocalize this when Azure mentions wanting to "heat him up". I become acutely aware of a tingling sensation in my mouth. 

  I imagine sitting on the edge of his bed and biting at the bottom of his shirt with my teeth. His fingers touch my curls as I pull him into me. I spread my limbs out on his queen sized bed pretending it is ours (because I need to believe I am special). He gets as far as fiddling with the large buttons on my black blouse. Then the familiar "Inevitable" of all my forced fantasies takes place. His body begins to shift. His long, trim torso shortens. His shoulders broaden and his arms become thick and muscular. His tattoos transform from colorful manifestations of my own mind to familiar outlines of of the ocean and faded calligraphy. His hands become calloused, paint-coated and rough. His clean shaven skin begins to knick my cheeks. I soon feel the softness of familiar facial hair against my chin. His eyes go from half-moons to familiar windows. I look through them. I see you. I feel you between my thighs. I am no longer his conquest because I have always been your territory. And when you come to claim me, you map out my terrain...bruises and all. 

   I nod my head at Azure, pretending to not have met you there. I say the word "fuck" a lot to seem like my spirit is not deteriorating at the thought of something as casual as a hookup. I consider what my life was like before I met you as the bubbles in Azure's beer emerge. I am grateful I am not the only thing surfacing in this bar tonight. 

   I look over at Jesus. He keeps yawning and doing heart-openers because He is bored with the place. I understand what He means when He says: "It is hard to breathe in here." But, He does like the photo booth.

  "Can we take some pictures?" 

    He asks. 

    I roll my eyes. He is always making me uncomfortable and forcing me to face myself in the thick of my prostitution. He puts His hand on my back, leads me into the still-frame booth and challenges me to observe the distorted faces I am forcing in my futile attempt to outrun myself. I study the strip of photos hot off the press. 

    I do not have eyes. 

    I am frustrated.

    He has ruined my night yet again with His unwavering Truth.

    

    And all my bottles of Absolut 

    Are not so absolute.