Harlow
Finally, I’m free. Not that my release means I’m innocent.
You’d probably argue I’m not free at all, though, never have been.
That this level of fame is a prison in itself.
Everyone watching my every move, wishing for my downfall.
Unable to leave my glass cell without being chased down.
Except instead of prison guards, it’s paparazzi with zoom lenses, reporters with too much ambition, and deranged losers with absurd vendettas.
But it’s all about perspective. And I’m grateful that I can now see that these aren’t problems. No, I’ve had those.
And I’ve dealt with them. These are simply proof that the dream I’m living is real, and if “celebrity” is a punishment, I’ll take it.
Live out my glamorous sentence behind gold bars and velvet curtains willingly, begging them to throw away the key.
I know better than anyone that you can’t have the good without the bad.
I fought too hard, gave up too much to be ungrateful now.
I remember what it was like to withstand the rejections in the beginning.
To be cast aside. My arrest was just a little blip on my journey.
There’s no such thing as bad press, right?
I giggle at the absurdity of it all—at everything that’s happened, what I’ve done. The delirious laughter ceases in my throat and my smug smile drops as I stare off into the distance.
“But did you do it?” I imagine you asking.
You’ll hate me when you learn the truth.