Writing by Alyssa Bedford // Photograph by Liat Meir
We are clumsy black widows, trapping ourselves in our own webs. We chase highs, smoke driven obsessions to feel numb once more.
Black out until our bloodstreams slow to a halt. Until we hear nothing but the thrumming of wind in our ears.
Dreaming about aliens, shrouding ourselves in fantasy, romanticizing loneliness.
Call it art deco.
Call me psycho.
Trying to capture an aesthetic so hard we throw our souls away.
Burn our fingernails on cigarette butts (we didn’t know how to smoke them properly but always kept the filters in our back pockets in case someone asked to check our badassery).
Grinding on our own teeth. Knocking on the loose elbows of the skeletons peeking behind our closet doors.
What a masochistic generation.
What a depraved few to make art out of guns with flower petal bullets.
Of skulls spitting out sunshine between their empty jaws.
To climb mountain tops only to even scores.
They say we are acting out of rotten childhoods- playing as false revolutionaries.
But we are questioners.
Wondering after our place in the universe.
Chasing after the sharp clarity pain brings us, voyaging into the lull of a cocaine binge to see if there really is light at the end of the tunnel.
If this all means something.
Does this mean something?
Where have we come from?
Where are we going?
What will we become?[share]