Las Vegas

I'm moving to Las Vegas to be a whore. First I will cleanse myself with bleach and lasers. Broken things will be fixed with staples and knives. All of my heartache and disillusionment, an angry black vomit glob, will be condensed to a hard jagged stone I can use to maim, blind, kill and stun things. Men will look into my cobalt eyes and know I mean business. You want a date? Buy me a steak and a baked potato. I want the whole goddamn chocolate cake, the one in the window that is a miracle, that does not melt under all those fucking angelic lights. I am not bitter. I am as sweet as ripe strawberries drowning in champagne. We can have fun. We can smoke in the sun and lounge by the lagoon with all the other lost witches and pirates. I'm moving to Las Vegas to be a witch. I will cook up spells that make the wrong men beg and the right man follow my scent to the waking cafe. The neon is going down and we are coming up. Listen. My heart after all these miles is still a giddy darling drunken drum.