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She wears shorts with fishnets and shirts with prints older than generations, and leaves her hair the mess her nest created when the morning came to retrieve her. She inhales her pack out of long cigarette holders and clomps in her father's old combat boots with a full metal jacket. She paints her masterpiece with shades of black eyes and blood lips against cellophane skin. Her eyes are a natural shade of envy with a careless manner.

Noose around her neck because it's always cold in her world. I think it's because she never wears underwear. A button up souvenir from the last guy she screwed loose around her frame. Halo covered by a black ski hat. She drinks her Caribbean OJ from jam jars in the mornings and wears heels when we visit the park to escape. She sucks on the gold cross necklace that hangs above her push-up and dances to Chapman. She writes on a wooden stage because she wants her thoughts to be the center of attention. She steals library books only to draw pictures on all the pages and return them, and paints Dickenson graffiti on the knowledge canvas. Sometimes she lets the geezer in the park hit on her because he was her lover in a past life, and climbs trees to get a better view of her kingdom. Her best friend is a transvestite who drives a van with stuffed animals tied to it. He hosts shows every Tuesday where she wears no shirt. She brings books to our bonfires to burn them into her memory, and keeps her Halloween decorations up all year.

Story by:

Elizabeth Cook

5 December 2013