Lana Del Rey’s LP

They ran her to the nearest hospital after she cut her wrist. Blood scattered everywhere. It was her second. And it failed again. She refused to say a word. Her lips was tight as her eyes focusing on the abyss. Even after hideous scars on both of her wrists, she still managed to be that kind of woman her parents wanted her to be; strong, stiff, emotionless, eyes on prize. Don’t ask, don’t tell, stuff they told you after someone had forced to enter you without your consent or even slightest willingness.

She still managed to have everything she tried to pursue. Without her parents help, without anyone standing beside her in the shady antiseptic room. A small ward it was, they were talking about dreams; philosophy of science and technology, America, Ivy League school, lecturer, researcher, the global flow of cassette tape, those 172 farmers who were detained. But all then went bleak.

For her, life is nothing but walking through dying and falling red camellia petals. Brick by brick, we would eventually fade, or she thought. Has anything ever agitated her beyond her boiling point since the day she let go the half of her life? I bet for nothing. Her legs got wobblier each day. She lived by the innocuous words and gestures. Not knowing what else that could breath a sense of living into her soul.

She never understood why people refused to apologize. Apology was, on the contrary, the easiest thing for her. She kept apologizing for everything in her whole life; she was sorry she could only come second in any competitions, she apologized for being cheated because she was not good enough, she felt guilty and asked for forgiveness when she said the truth, she apologized to this good earth that delivered her life which she was unable to take care of. But others didn’t. Nothing but an empty letter of an Olympic of oppression. Then she apologized for not suffering enough.

Then maybe she had enough for apologizing. She had enough of not having the apology that was rightfully hers.

So she lied down on the bed. Head full of benzo, prescribed and kept. The weather was chiller than yesterday, and it would be more. She got to go. The notorious wind blew her hair, as she walked downtown. And felt nothing. The finch tress changed their colors, and she was still the dead girl they left lying on a hospital bed.

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