come in and take a seat. join me for this little confessional.
I’m laying down honesty, because why hold a lie? we can’t wade through water this thick with concrete feet. too many things have become too hot to touch. our house burns a strange fury— its quiet but it hangs in the air, heavy and stifling.
it’s no secret I’ve changed.
you—so used to a specific me. So used to it in fact, that you are fully engaged with your typical modus operandi.
There is a (sort of) understated admiration for the handiwork; but I can see your penchant for haute couture. It’s elegant and refined. You appreciate the silk brocade and tiny, hand-sewn pearly detail.
But you play it safe... the only thing you need worry about is staining that silky cream, tea-rose adorned gown with a piping hot cup of English Breakfast.
Give me Avant-Garde!
To burst the head in a halo of succulent plumes— the eyes hidden by black organza. Golden, metal shoulders,...