I am top-forty country and black coffee; I just top-coated my left pointer finger in pure gold: You can't put fabulous in a box, mutha-fuckers!
Books and pillows litter my apartment. I want to remove everything and decorate as if I were living in a caravan traveling across morocco, colorful sils hanging, pillows, tea, water-p-pipes.
This week has been so up that I knew down was lurking around the edge of the almost full moon. I touched the sky yesterday, the wind buffeted me on the narrow ledge as one way or the other earth fell sharply away. Alive alive alive.
The taste of nickle in the back of my throat when I am afraid to say something, when I fight back tears, when I become so angry that I want the wind to hold me as I sail out over it all, and then I breath in deep and open my eyes and start to speak.
Hiding. Again. Perhaps. I will put my heart in a box, I will put it in glass, I will hide it in the depths of the ocean, I will put it on display in a museum. I will follow grace. I will sin. There is love to share and I push the edge of my finger to the rim of desire. I follow instinct. Alive alive alive. Remove doubt and dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment