Monday nights, back in time

''Av u gt plans 1 of em gals had a frek dwn ur way lads fink u mite b beta calmin er the *uk out.''

It's almost a poem. In my head it is. I don't write this way.
It expresses the same drama whether they fill a text with oxymoron's and pathetic fallacy, or if it is just there, in modern day cryptic's on an exhausted computer screen.

I know what it means.
The imagery along side the lack of letters. A girl, is she my age? Older? A bathroom, half a dozen men hanging around in a smoked out back house. The tears and shouting, growl-y voices. I hear nails tearing wood, howling (I never had much patience with girls shrieks) and 'music' I'd never play trying to hide it. The smell of sweat, liqueur and damp tainted by such a fruity herb smell.

If you knew me, this is the place you'd probably not guess of me.

I'm a bit too soft.
Weak bones and tired brown eyes.
The girl is probably really not the same.
Blonde? Too much mascara not enough brains...
But she's upset and I'm not.

If you watched my face
maybe you'd see the change.
Turning hearing the key in my lock, too dark to really see
maybe you'd understand what it is to be me.