ornament invitation
seraphical substances make hammers for homes. she mutters it six feet below her breath, squinting dumbly into the light as splinters push into her calf. how long until the spittle begins to taste like it's been yesterday? with ankles pressed to the wood of the porch, friction familiar, it's machinery the way she curls up every day with the same collarbone aches and crude indifference, thinking, thinking, thinking...
blowing puffs of air through a smirk, smoke is an accessory to the caricature that keeps her from falling out of the painting. glassed over, glossy, finished. yet she kicks up dust into her own eyes and calls it anguish? from across the street you can almost see the cigarette sit between her teeth, it's clear she's struggling not to chew it to pieces with the tremors of thought. it hangs heavy with the pink muscle between her mouth, dead weight.
that's her real weapon- the one which spits sentences so that his eyebrows pivot with anger, until his cheeks are aggravated to a rough, recognisable fuchsia which she considers conveniently artistic. conveniently, as she stows it away for when simple comfort can't compete and the delta of his hips lie victim to her tongue instead... suffices, always. she grins with it's simplicity, and the contradiction that sits in the slats of her ribs.
stained distractions, nicotine vices and a heartless lens. do you recognise this painting?
blowing puffs of air through a smirk, smoke is an accessory to the caricature that keeps her from falling out of the painting. glassed over, glossy, finished. yet she kicks up dust into her own eyes and calls it anguish? from across the street you can almost see the cigarette sit between her teeth, it's clear she's struggling not to chew it to pieces with the tremors of thought. it hangs heavy with the pink muscle between her mouth, dead weight.
that's her real weapon- the one which spits sentences so that his eyebrows pivot with anger, until his cheeks are aggravated to a rough, recognisable fuchsia which she considers conveniently artistic. conveniently, as she stows it away for when simple comfort can't compete and the delta of his hips lie victim to her tongue instead... suffices, always. she grins with it's simplicity, and the contradiction that sits in the slats of her ribs.
stained distractions, nicotine vices and a heartless lens. do you recognise this painting?