I can't compete with your vanity

You spent an hour in the mirror— I spent an hour in the bar. Your lipstick’s a death sentence I don’t want to serve. I walk through these rooms, thinking of small deaths, wishing I had the nerve to pack up and leave. You think I envy your silk shirts, your hair that floats like smoke. But I have my own ruin to feed with whiskey and cigarette ash. You are not my hero, you are not my god— you are a billboard I no longer want to read.