Early Summer

Days of sore stale arches and hamstrings pleading for expansion. Cascading pressure from center rips at my lips and the softness between my thighs. Through the brambles, blackberry thickets, a locket caught in the stream at dusk. The persistence of memory pounds and sinks her teeth into my raw brain. All movies are the same to me now, because none of them tell my story. My story is of the loneliest girl in the city of traffic lust and excess. The kingdom Downtown L.A. is self-righteously lit up. I paint myself white and my lips red and hold a cross through the crowds of drag queen geishas in the garden of forbidden fruit.

Branches of poison spoiled with sugary tear ducts drifting through November full moons, icy and frightfully lucid. Dreaming of the Northern Lights underneath a powdery sheet of snow and sugared ice and sugared water pouring from the sky, an old sleeping chamber maid ringing out her wet hair on the clouds. Prostrate and shivering beyond any measure of coherent thinking, my mind swivels and soars between my eyes pricking each others dreams out, devouring those dreams like chocolate covered strawberries at midnight under cold stark sheets, hands starving for warmth and touch of a ray of silver light bleeding through the corners of lips they press and ponder piously ceaselessly praying, wordlessly.