Generator ^ First Floor // Freelance Whales

Strained eyes leak open in the sun. Hair nestled on her shoulders tangled in knots, struggling for the last breath of her cigarette, she exhales a wispy white cloud. Creases on her forward are slightly masked by her sun-drenched, golden haze. White-blonde hair illuminates against pavement as she climbs off her heels and treks into Convenient opting for a bottle of water and another pack of lights. She is tender to the touch, a waif of fragile bones, with cheeks you could melt inside of.

Maybe I’m alluding to a colorless version of an old TV show. A woman before her time and obviously before ours. She seemed like the type that would run in the rain with no shoes scarring the soles of her feet infinitely. A person who substituted thoughts for food. Delicate to look at but a constant breach between a lady and a lion. All I could distinguish was her restlessness and weary eyes; too much dope does that to one. There were men before her that wished to strangle her and there were men after her that thought the world of her knobby knees and cocaine words. She spewed truths equally as much as all the shit she’d imagine up. Photographers and poets tried to put her on paper in any which way, but nothing could summarize her worldliness and over-exposure in a Kodak world.

I dissolved into her being more than once, every time electing philosophy over the pragmatic approach. But I lived on pennies in a curtain-covered room trying to remind myself that I’m doing this for a reason. That I starve and stretch and ruin my inside’s because what else is there to really do? Nothing but waste your precious youth on Ecstasy and unsafe sex, morphine and expensive pills, black eyes and chalky-mouths. I never remembered being placid in regards to looks or behavior but I do recall a brick fireplace where my pink tights would get caught. Is being innocent meant for our childhood alone? Growing up will always try to jade us, but instead of cringing at the thought of ruining our chastity, let’s never forget that we are growing, morphing, mending creatures of a constant youth. A hundred years is just a blink in the eyes of the limitless. We are forever five, no matter what demons we meet along the way.


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