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Tuesday, July 20
All the girlies and the party they had.
Everything is sprayed gold, and the paint leaks into the emperor’s robe of sky. All the girls line their eyes and swing their bones, pounding the air with the currents that flow from every glossy glass eyeball. Frictionless and perfect, everyone is looking at everyone. Everyone is Everyone. They’re trading satin with a sagging underwire for leopard print 34A.
She is erasing her whiskers, and soap-boxing about the soldoutedness of Miss Liz Phair, then purring into my ear ,“ Come with me to the bathroom. These damn whiskers love me too much.” Scrubbing them off makes me feel like a mom.
The glow is like honey on her when she lets the bliss noises scatter from her lips like cracked hard candy, and we know only she could turn the word hamster into innuendo.
And I imagine she is really happy.
The eyes of a once harassed Cleopatra are now closed, curled under, aloof. Her’s. She is tired or fine or her stomach hurts? “Appendicidus,” I say. “Give me a knife, some napkins, and some tums,” I say, lying on my belly like a bow that is untied, disgusted with myself, a satisfied belly filled with strawberry pop tart. I feel like a tart. Am I what I have eaten? Am I the phenomenal moment when the ice hits the coke?
She sings into my face, her nose on mine, like two drunk deer strangled by the tide of lights we see in our heads. They're
washing over our irises as we dream of trains and oceans and romance. The emperor’s robe falls down in a heap onto us, until I cannot even stand, but as it turns out, the night was always naked.
I sleep with my feet at her head. Sound comes from her like a lament, like a whimper. I hate the word “whimper.” I love it when everyone is this perfect. Smile at me because I am ugly and sleeping. Look for me in the morning when all the paint has been soaked up by the yards of East Memphis. I’ll be the one in leopard print, vomiting tarts and eating my feelings.
morgiepoo thinks really deep thoughts @ 3:40 PM
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