temperance doesn’t work on girls like me

a smoke session cool girl confession for when the joint starts to burn sideways

i stood out in the cold
in yesterday’s makeup 
not prepared to face myself in the mirror.
so i lit up half a joint,
hoping to sublimate the pain   
with numbness i choose instead
as i looked to find peace by taking a long drag
and breathing out for four counts 

i was looking for answers,
but all i found was
another “be patient”
and some ash on my hoodie.

tarot said temperance.
i said temper tantrum.
because i’m tired of waiting.
tired of “trust the timing.”
tired of acting like i don’t care
when i do.

“temperance”
like that meant anything
to a girl pacing her kitchen
looking for meaning
in crumbs
and missed connections.

i believe in signs
until they stop working.
believe in the universe
until it ghosts me.
i believe in love
but only in lowercase
because uppercase felt like too much
and not enough
at the same time. 

angel numbers flash
on subway clocks and phone screens
but they don’t explain
why i feel like
an open wound in a party dress.

i wear this cool girl skin
like a thrifted coat.
too big.
too loud.
everyone says it looks good
but it doesn’t fit.
just another girl with a lighter that won’t spark,
trying to look untouchable
while begging to be seen.

truth is:
i don’t know who i am
outside of my crushes and my crying spells
outside of the “you up?”
and the “i’m fine”
and the “do you see me yet?”

everyone says i’m cool.
funny. chill. magnetic.
but i know i’m a fraud.
a curated playlist.
a soft girl in a leather jacket
too scared to let anyone unzip it.

some days i feel like
a poem with no rhythm,
a song with no hook.
like if mac wrote about me
he’d say,
“she got heart,
but she ain’t got peace yet.”

i cry in bathrooms
between punchlines.
burn sage
like it’s medicine.
pray with my headphones on
because silence is too loud
and i don’t trust god without bass.

some nights
i think if i screamed loud enough
i’d echo back
as someone real.
not this reflection.
not this imposter.
not this girl who says “it’s fine”
and means “don’t leave.”

but i’m still here.
still reaching.
still high on heartbreak
still trying to find grace
in graffiti,
in texts he didn’t send,
in playlists,
in poems that are half unwritten because
they hurt too bad to finish.

i love too much.
feel too fast.
care too hard.
and
maybe i’m a little crazy.
but at least i’m honest.
i’m the kind that still believes 
even when i see that the sky is clearly not blue

and i’m still here.
showing up with smudged eyeliner
and too many tabs open
still smoking through sadness.
still asking for god
in glitter
and gut feelings
in strangers playlists 
and empty dms 
in the silence between tarot card reads
where i pretend im not waiting
for a voice that sounds like his on vinyl,
warm and static and
skipping
to the same place i keep coming back to.
songs that sound like someone
almost
loved 
me.

an actual photo of the girl temperance doesn’t work for — clearly