My friend brushes war paint onto my face, I don’t know how to do it. She tells me I look fierce. I can’t stop looking at my reflection, it’s like looking into an alternate dimension. We strap tall knives to our feet. It’s scary but I’m also excited.
Then we’re running through the empty dark streets with only spirits to warm our bones. Our knives make sparks as they hit the platform, like the train as it screams along the tracks.
When we arrive the war paint and the knives work and we’re let in. We have to cross an alcoholic ocean of spilt chances and unheard words. The knives elevate my feet away from the worst of it. A few figures leer at us but we fight them off.
Arms flailing, hips shaking, we let the current of noise take us. We let our laughter contaminate the stream of noise, this is what we did battle for.
Last night I went “out out” with my friends. We did our hair and make-up together then headed into town. Going out can be fun, but I do find clubbing an ordeal.
freyawrightbrough 