What do you want, O you strange girl? Who do you want to be when you wake up?
You run, run from that white-wedding-cake-hell of windows like gunmetal cages, cold as dead babies, vapid antiseptic domesticity. You run, run from the white-hot licks of rubber against pavement, the quick hard living of slick godlessness under heavy Godful skies. You are polar in too many places; you will shrivel and rot and rip to pieces. Who are you, you strange girl? WHAT DO YOU WANT?
I grind my teeth in the cough-syrup-saccharine gloss-polished crap we are fed about living; about settling into mindlessness and losing our elasticity; about flinging ourselves through branding irons and expecting to come out clean and unscathed. Where is the living that was supposed to engulf me? Why didn't they tell us that time was so opaque?
We are not important. We are supported by: a cream-cheese spider web of mismatched, fallible words that may or may not do what they are instructed. what are we when that breaks, islands? singular islands of unexpressed vehemence? And then: fear, fear because none of my buttercream philosophy really exists... but God does, truly and silently, and the hard yellow earth returns beneath my feet.
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