Every day is dead ballerina day at my house, at my house

by heytherewildflower

and…. date night outfit (which basically means outfit I wear the most because it always looks good and not too slutty but still sexy and is interesting and is comfortable)

note the rhinestone heart on my ankle. which is my favorite thing about this whole outfit. scarf, mom’s from 70’3, blouse, grandma’s from the 80s, leather shorts from every day of my life, shoes, ferragamo, velvet item, arc. dumb face, fixture of my life, GOT IT FROM MY MAMA

HI HI HI HI HI MAKEOUT WITH ME TO THE BEACH BOYS iN YOUR CAR WHILE YOU’RE DRIVING?? hi hii hi do ya think im pretty??? hi hi im prettier after a whiskey sour or 3 and after my shirt is off HI HI HI I’LL WRITE YOU A POEM hi

Drowning in the Bath Tub 

No direction sense and no sense for direction are the same thing.
I could get lost in a bathtub! was a clever thing to say, and true, perhaps.
The  chill had sowed my bones and begun to grow.

I was face down, moldering beneath the sudsy veil,
micro bubbles and milk water, imagining my skin pried
afrom the bones. Remember the old cooking trick. Place an eggplant
in boiling water? Purple skin peals so easily from it’s snotty meat
by the heat of a boiler. clever and quick cooking tricks
passed from mother to daughter. 

Here, the rain resists being snowflakes, refuses to stick
to the street. slips into the giant cerulean green lettuce ears bursting maroon star bursts, the drooping sunflowers of mist, skin city’s blinking face.

Marinading of flower froth and cigarette butts,
and golden dirt flecks coat the asphalt. our rare sun makes crust
of the city’s curvy body, and we burn on the occasion.

Occasional cobblestones, exposed like teeth where footfalls wore and wore.
I was told by a friend that the old city burned and was slowly buried
as the new skin kept building.

Anything touched has skin dust. Touch anything.
Touch me. you stroked my baby cheek, and your finger flesh
stuck to me but your heat on my body was lost to the rain.
the rain smoked on my face. oozed down my nose. lips can form words
when they’re not choked, stuck upon the shut mouth’s crust.

Remember excavations of the famous Vesuvius disaster
uncovered a petrified mother and daughter, mother
embracing the daughter, covering her. stone bodies
encased in solid ash. daughter suffocating upon the mother’s breast.

Sleeping volcanos cradling their wistful cities.
people kissing back the words. The rain erased the impressions
your lips made. The rain erased the foot prints.

Marinating in the sudsy milk dust of the bath foam,
hot womb recalls the dream of my mother’s arms.