dixie’s room

“the stars don’t care what you took, babe. they’ll still spin for you.”

the walls sparkle. like actual glitter. like a rave snuck into a bedroom and refused to leave. lava lamps hum softly in the corners. posters of bands no one remembers are tacked up beside notes written in lipstick and eyeliner.

something smells like cherry lip gloss and burnt incense. maybe patchouli. maybe freedom. the stereo buzzes with disco and stardust and a song that never quite ends.

if you listen close, you’ll hear giggles in the static. or maybe sobs. dixie doesn’t always know the difference. but she’s here. and she swears the universe is a little pinker because of it.