Champagne Confessions

There’s so much to chase in this life, but no one teaches you what to do when time turns on you, like a dog with foam at the mouth and no soul behind its eyes. It doesn’t ask permission, It just takes. It gnaws at your edges while you pretend to be composed, while you wake up, drink your coffee, put on your rings and your lipstick, and walk out the door like you’re not already halfway devoured.

Deadlines. 

Smiles. 

Wasted youth. 

All of it stacked neatly like unpaid debts next to the wine bottles and the memories you’ve tried to scrub out with bleach and prayer. The only things that seem to age well are a good scotch and a God-fearing man, and even God has stopped fearing me.

We all start out as dreamers. Bright eyed. Naïve. Soft around the edges. We believe in reward. We believe if we’re good enough, or beautiful enough, or strategic enough, we’ll be safe. The world doesn’t deal in goodness, It deals in blood and no one walks away without paying.

Some people work themselves to death just to keep breathing. They grind their bones to ash and call it duty. Others drink themselves into slow decay, no fire, no urgency, just resignation draped in excuses. Then there are the ones who get everything. The ones who played the game and won. The ones who built a perfect life with the perfect house and the perfect partner and the perfect résumé. They got what they wanted.

But the devil works like a genie. He doesn’t steal. He bargains. Three wishes, each costing more than the last. You asked for success, Now you bleed in marble bathrooms and sign contracts with a trembling hand. You asked for love, Now your chest is a vault you forgot how to open. You asked for status, Now your name is just a currency that others use to climb.

The house you built is a tomb. The job you begged for now strips you daily, and those friends with the perfect white teeth? They’d rape you clean and call it charity. They’d gut you in public, parade your corpse through a gala, and still toast your name with thousand dollar champagne. 

You wear your coffin in couture. You raise a glass to your own execution. You die every day a little quieter, a little more elegantly.

I have everything and still, I feel nothing. No joy, No light, Just the knowledge that I must have prayed too hard, or maybe to the wrong god. Because the God I knew wouldn’t hand me this life and then leave me choking on it. He wouldn’t let me drown while I screamed His name into the silence. He wouldn’t keep me alive just to watch me decay from the inside out.

But maybe He died the day I stopped believing in grace. Maybe He was never watching to begin with. Maybe I was born into a world where there are no angels, just hunters and prey, and the moment you stop moving, they smell you, and they come.

The view is perfect. The walls don’t speak anymore. The foundation has cracked and no one noticed. Behind my eyes, there is only rot. No softness. No warmth. Just memory and fire. I owe a debt, and I’m paying, in silence, in wine, in vanished days and brittle smiles.

You say you see me, but if I carved myself open, would you even look? Or would you wear my pain like fur? Would you unzip my grief, fuck the bones of who I used to be, and call it intimacy?

Beautiful souls find comfort in darkness, not because they’re broken, but because it’s the only place they aren’t hunted. The world offers two choices: cowboy or dreamer. Break your back or break your spirit. Obey or disappear. But either way, you bleed. Either way, it ends in sacrifice.

So cheat the game. Gut the players. Burn the mask they gave you and become something too holy in your violence to ever be tamed. Become sacred through your silence. Terrifying through your stillness. I did.

My daddy once told me, “To be misunderstood is a gift. The ones who try to understand you will either slit your throat or raise you from the dead. Pay attention. It always costs the same.”

So how much are you willing to spend when the only outcomes are life or death, and nothing in between? Will you hand over your children, your lovers, your softness? Will you bury every innocent part of yourself just to survive another day in this gilded hell?

Or will you settle, be a cowboy, a dreamer, a relic of someone else’s design? A puppet dressed in gold, still swinging from the same old noose?

Just remember this:

It all costs the same.

Rest in power, Daddy.

You always knew.

Some daughters are born to bury, and some, are born to burn the whole goddamn world.