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If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of you are great light borrowers. Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected, and your first gift is making stone out of everything. I wake to a mausoleum; you are here, ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes, spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous, and dying to say something unanswerable.
VIA CON ME /WRITTEN BY SYLVIA PLATH
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??? [i can break . . . i can be clogged . . . i can be attacked . . . i can be given . . . i can be kept . . . i can be crushed . . . yet i can be whole at the same time] ???
RUNNING TO THE EDGE OF THE WORLD was a difficult thing to do, especially in ballet pointe slippers. Trying to break her own fall, while staying true to the lovesick song playing on loop inside her heartwas like the embodiment of a shadow inside the Valley of the Dolls. Delusional.
Girls girls girls. Girls in the notorious city of Gotham got by with the hole inside of them, born with a void hard to destroy with love or hope. Built with a heart that had always been broken from the start. Living with identities that don't belong to them, they're ready to die like a shooting star in Gotham. Back to zero while racing down into oblivion. But girls aren't meant to fight dirty, girls need to bend down and curtesy. Curtesy to men in power with gleaming smiles and wandering eyes. Nod off to the tranquil sounds of insecurity and gossip.
