

just a formality, she says.The antique apothecary bottles on the windowsill call out for fresh flowers. Their dried inhabitants match my melancholy. I can't even throw them away. I tell them I want heady, humid nights in August tangled in mosquito netting. I want revolution and altruism and a sleepy, sighing partner in crime. I want to taste red wine on a smile. I want to write a sonnet and mean it. I want my Allen fucking Ginsberg, and I want him now. They just glow amber against the salty fog.just a formality, she says.
I haven't slept right in a week, not even for me. I'm staring out at the overcast dawn of spring and drinking organic orange juice straight from the carton. It's a
.

Another Funeral FlowerBaring all except witness, naked and blindfolded, I stumble desperately in the direction of your infallible laughter only to find it further away, taunting me from another corner of what smells like a cedar swamp. Tripping over the corroded remains of loves long dead- every girl you feigned affection for just to fuck and every boy whose songs I lied about and said I liked- bones splinter under bare feet and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. I want you to think I'm having as much fun as you seem to be having.Another Funeral Flower
Leafless branches tear across my flesh and their fiendish fingers tangle in my hair while my own trembling hands scra
what's a girl like you doing in such a devious place as this?
--
"We fall but our souls are flying."
-The Decemberists
--
Powerade is my elixir
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