6:00 p.m. - 01/10/02
show me the way back to the garden...
The Gathered Breath of Two Deflated Girls paging through catalogues magazines smearing her vision the way newsprint smears her fingertips; her lips, not painted- let alone aware of the right color- begin frowning, drowning in perfume ads that dull her senses looking away searching for someday. a way out of pouty-lipped emaciation bohemia sold out to commercialism leaving her lonely and supposedly hungry for these overpriced clothes temporarily hypnotized by one of those magazines that, should she subscribe, will mispell her name. but no, she doesn't want the clothes the same way tracy, traipsing through the gravestones one autumn afternoon felt the wind wind through her hair and wanted nothing to do with death, so fond was she of breath that she let forth her belated scream and walked back to the road walked on with no one knowing, this street curls back to where the yellow grass is growing - little ivy snakes pulling her in a second, third, fourth, final time but no, you don't understand, tracy doesn't want death- she likes parties where crepe paper curls from ceilings she wants to touch the sky my belated cry: I know this girl she's craving flight she doesn't want to die girls at anorexic weights airbrushed until, they too are blurred, like the fates of every friend I claim I can do nothing except keep writing their name, keep tracing the letters as they rang at the end of every note she wrote me, tracing tracy, crepe paper, watching the letters float out of reach. one after another one by one catalogues waiting for the moment I'm debating am I lonely enough to buy their version of my name? -- one should not post poetry so quickly after writing it, but if this were about my self-conscious censorship, there'd be no words to read. chord
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