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trixie
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On the other side of that door is a black and white mysitque, a twisted and confused person with herself and with us. Friend and enemy all tightly composed into her.
She had a bad night.
This I know as she pulled at my cigarette, a gift of charity meant to give comfort, but was only a means to walk away and close the door to brood in the terrible thing some more.
I can see the cracks of light peering in. Or maybe I am sneaking in through the small whiffs of inner truth that creep along the carpet. Her voice ebbs and peaks along our walls, our walls, but are only reminders that something has happened and I have no idea why, or how, or who, or what I should do or can do or if I even want to do.
And every time the door is shut I am open in a new way to explore this paradoxical person, simply twisting for show, living for revenge.
We are a pair, joined like sisters who smile and hug and are also fighting for attention and love. I am the younger sister by the year I was born, I was in 4th grade when Kurt Cobain died, and to her it was a vicious murder that tore away her flannel laced one way ticket to freedom. In truth, am I really the youth? Her dusty and crippled lovers hang from the walls and spill out of the closets onto the fresh and tender new beaus. She covers up the smoke in her viens with thick, shiny lacquers and piss stained lingere.
The pictures that cut the walls bleed into her eyes a call of who she wants to be to her masses. The weak, the poor, and the ultimatley needly sexaholics see her exterior and drool at her charms. the medusa comes out under the sheets and in the darkness and destroys every last one of them, eats their core and shirks their dicks and puts them into their places that are smaller than they want to be. But after the fact, when the words have fallen and the ashes are not orange, but black, she closes the door to mix it all up on the other side of herself.
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