Rockstar Vibes

I caught sight of my reflection in a shattered windowpane. I looked a sight in a Smiths t-shirt and and tattered denim vest. My Vans were covered in vomit and maybe blood. I don't know anymore. It's not mine, I've held my liquor just fine. This band is fucked, we're going nowhere. Playing shows for pill popping animals isn't where I saw my career going at thirty. 

"Great show mate," someone slaps my back with enough force to make me cough.

"Fuck off," I holler back at him.

He celebrates with his friends as if he's won something. Probably all the joy I've lost over the last three years of touring. Opening up for bands that don't even remember our names, while the fans beat themselves into a stupor before the main attraction shows and I've got nothing to show for it but a little bit of cash. I could have made just as much by going to work a regular job. But nope, I had to be a real fucking rock star.

"Bus is leaving," one of the stagehands calls out to me.

"Yeah, be right there."

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