Tart tulle. A world of black and pink. Girlhood is a vivid hot pink stain in the local psyche of ravens. A lipsticked maven sells beauty to the hungry future ghosts of beauty. They sell you your youth while you’re young and have it anyway. They sell you beauty when you’re gorgeous already. The stars shine like the bright eyes of my younger self before I shook off extraneous need for approval. The Claire’s to Victoria’s Secret Pipeline is the first real graduation a woman has (after she gets her life giving flow). The travel from the land of glitter to the land of fishnets is brutally short. The ghost of a blighted field is scintillating and sinister in the lacy snow. After graduation, I lived according to the laws and regulations of my new hyper sex bunny land, but I loathed it because I felt like a rock where I used to be a diamond. At the core of the softness of woman is always the sparkling of gems. So I came to the valley between my mountainous breasts, and my heart erupted into a quiet, silk thing. No longer a fetish of myself but a real woman of flesh and gentleness. Snow fills my bones, my memories. Soft, pristine, clean.
Miniature Moon 