Learning the best ways to let myself melt into the paint again.
We are reflections of innermost hear beats. The best part of being young was when I stopped counting seconds in between breaths in 3rd grade. Hiding these outward plans to see everything as if it were new and shiny. We were planning on being Marians.
The world was so small and her dreams so big. She needs a home to rest her body because sadly she will not be using it ever again. Search for the lost because they can’t anymore.
Find the missing girls of DC.
I died once. It was cold and dark like a pickle jar in the back of a refrigerator. I was living in an old apartment that leched mold from the walls. Sickness grabbed me and wrapped around my heart. Confusion took over my mind. All I had was the paint and a radio to click on and out of the world. I lived alone waiting for my 1000th painting. Death and I had made a pact for inspiration. The matches lived in my fingers to create fire on the stove. A million teapots screamed at 3 in the morning every day. One night my pilot light went out as I slept with the window open and I ran face to face, lips to teeth, hip to hip with Death. I am not much of a person for fear but it took me deep in its arms. We looked at each other in the dark that night as I coughed up half my life at its feet. I pushed the fear off my spin and crawled to the stove as it clicked and turned it off opening all the windows in 20-degree winter wrapped in a blanket and vomited. A few hours later I woke up closed the window turned the shut off behind the stove. It was an insane time.
Never die of hardwood floor for a minute it fucks with your taste buds.