Spent all morning trying to write something new. Nothing came out. Just sat on the floor of my shithole apartment staring at the same four walls that have watched me cry, fuck, and drink myself to sleep for years.

Remembered this one time back in Jersey when I was maybe sixteen, trading blowjobs for a fucking cheeseburger because Ma spent the food money on pills again. The guy tasted like stale cigarettes and desperation. I swallowed, took the burger, and ate it crying in an alley. Sometimes I wonder if that's what my voice sounds like to people who really listen—that same mix of shame and survival.

Now I'm the one who gets paid to open my mouth, but the transaction feels just as hollow most nights. Except when it doesn't. Except when someone's fingers aren't just grabbing my ass but actually feeling the rhythm of the song through my skin, when a cock inside me feels like punctuation to a sentence I've been trying to scream my whole life. That's the high I'm chasing. Not the applause. The fucking recognition that I'm more than just a body with a hole to fill.

Maybe I'll try writing again. Or maybe I'll just pour another drink and see who shows up at the door. The options in this city are depressingly similar.