shaded. jaded. eighty bucks to be an icon, or maybe a cat. round red ones for that crown-of-thorns look,
aviators because you ache to go high,
pink heart shaped ones if you’re a girl who wants to see the world brighter.
your face is shrinking and your freckles blaze, sweat and tears and plastic won’t stop sliding down your nose and you keep trying to push them up but i guess they’re too big?
lenses are darker than undereye circles.
novelty glasses at the tourist store in florida and everyone’s worried about you, but who can tell when there’s beer bottles around the edges of the lenses, take a picture sister and maybe you’ll try it someday…?
then there’s the classics which never looked good on you, fake ray-ban ovals glinting like hummingbird eggs on the edges but when you push them up hawks dig their talons into their hair and i can see scalp
pink heart shaped ones if you want the world to see you brighter,
they broke last six months ago and won’t stay on straight, but maybe you can glue them back together.
you have another pair but they aren’t the same.
for now, you stick to sunscreen. your eyes burn and peel. your face dresses itself in satin.
“we didn’t used to be this way”
i look up a history of beauty. a history of cocoons. black and white photo of a 1920’s actress,
hip bones jutting like ivory plates,
i live off honey. girls cluster. compliments fall off tongues and roll into a corner. nectar. give and you shall receive.
my mother has a fixation with flowers. it was always the monsters on them that grabbed me. i took blurry photos of spiders when my sister ran
and people used to poke my shoulder blades. they stuck out enough to be wings. it is hard for me to distinguish between feather and bone. angels vs. anorexics, what’s the difference?
when the women in my family cry, our bodies shake so hard they vibrate
we are wasp-waisted bumblebees trapped behind a screen door.
when we were young the lawn was a forest we traveled daily,
painting sunflowers with blue nail polish on the back wall of the tenants house, where no one could see.
there were handprints there and they weren’t our own
we worked around them.
Where are you?
Where are you?
mid may and the loquats fall like blazing suns. my father goes outside and collects bowlfuls. they sit in the kitchen until their yellow turns brown, because how can something be what it can’t see?
seasons go by. seasons goodbye. dad leaves house. loquats die on the lawn. no one to put them in a bowl.
tenant lives in the studio after the lawn. she’s pretty like the girls you hated and wanted to be. she paints your sister’s nails gray. you remember the sunflowers.
tenant moves. new tenant. elias. he serves in the army, you think?. he complements your camera’s zoom lens. you smile. thank him. raspy voice. tenant lives. you go away one weekend. tenant dies. “brain aneurysm.” his family cremates him. he is still here. mostly, he sits impassive in the loquat tree, staring down at you. but sometimes he visits the sunflowers, taking pictures with a zoom lens.
years spin. like the wheel on that tv show you can never remember the name of, even though it’s obvious. new tenant. her motorcycle sits in the driveway and has cobwebs. once in a while you sit on it. she doesn’t mind.
it is cold outside. you do not go there much anymore.
cat sleeps on grave of other cat, by the new tenant’s house. cat is ok. new tenant has dog. dog is ok. old. not as old as elias.
wind chimes. bird head rots in lawn (cat?). body weeps in sunflowers.
she tells you through a text that the doctor prescribed her valium for her insomnia.
you don’t know what valium looks like; but last night you a dream that it spilled endlessly out of a bottle like cough syrup and blood and
drowned her as she slept-comatose. isn’t that how these things work
anyways? bullets shoot through phone screens. thoughts travel from your head to hers
in the night.
pillows like pills. sheets like paper. tired moon prescribes and prescribes, lab coat gray with craters and dirt and
from future fires
brown hair in the sun shines red-gold flute playing witch notes rising higher meets the sun
too smart for her own good
too insecure to feel good
winged eyeliner doesn’t smudge anymore. sparkling eyes with sparklier eyeshadow
swing dancing rag doll. words fall out of fingers. too hard on herself. projects anger onto people like a whiteboard
pillow festers with tears.
tea tree oil on everything hugs to feel like she’s worth something somehow the always the object of creepy older guys befriends the wild for thrills ride or die whirling arms and golden face tries too hard dies too hard too much to live for in too little time
invalidation is her achilles heel, but she will insist it’s everyone’s.
popsicles and front stoops, mid july, jean shorts frayed at the edges. we picked at the lose strings
we picked at the fabric of our lives and lies
summer between sixth and seventh grade and we talked about boys cause we thought we were straight
and katy perry kicked her high heeled boot at our faces. we were scared so we listened to her on the radio
we longed for something greater
freckles and pseudo tans. tampons and target bras
i am we are still trapped in that moment
heartbeats linking us together. trapped in shaking cages
piled on the back of a dusty ass pickup truck
driving us from girlhood to candyland.