There are days when I want red lipstick. Berry flavour Rita Hayworth silent sex star glimmering red. That perfect moue of a Casablanca kiss red, the disney approximation of vamp that haunts the dreams of old executives who remember the day the princess died. Marylin never wore this red, it’s simply not for blonde’s. This red is for the ghosts of famous prostitutes, it’s for the high heeled goddesses who walk the earth and knock over preconceived perceptions with a slight flick of their tongue. It’s for I’m Leaving You written on that one spectacular mirror that was such a find at the flea market, for that smudge on the collar that tells the other woman that you’re better than them. Deep passionate blood red. The red of fingernails in an 80’s movie, a mixture of the eyes wide shut blowjob of the pretty woman and the betrayal of modern culture burning bras.
Today isn’t one of those days, but yesterday might have been. I wanted to swim in eyes yesterday. Breathe in that comforting honey warmth that emanates from the sweetest of arsenic hearts and melts all my bones. Instead at home there’s cinnamon. A slender figure of awkward elegance, waiting to find my hand. I worry, but not very much. Lately I’ve been too tired, weary on a starvation level. Not enough calories to keep up with myself. My joints creak and snap when I move, and my head is in continual search for a pillow.
Sunday : working 2 – 5pm
Monday : working 5 – 8pm, Korean movie night
Tuesday :
Wednesday:
Thursday : working 2 – 9pm
Friday : working 3 – 9pm
Saturday : working 2 – 8pm
