New Things

I slam my door shut, sprawl pink shoes across my stained carpeted room

It was uncomfortable

Periodically stabbing the heel of my foot

I spread across my bed. I’m gassed. The thought of shoes joining the feet of another person, it’s hysterical. 

No way these weren’t meant for me. As I am. As I continue to be. 

I want a clean room with pink sheets & pink pillow cases & pink flowers on the window sill 

& pink plushies & a pink blanket & a pink drink & a pink poster of Mean Girls with modern feminism/

I want the sunrise to seep through my window

I want it clean & new

Like infinite retrospective 

… 

i bought gauze for my next pair

a pointy purple heel 

it latches on to carpet

i’ll fall into 

how I’m perceived 

- is Black. Unusual with shoes. I woke up at 10:00am and began scrolling through instagram. Much of it was looking at my own page. Looking at my golden fake hair running down my waist, I look at the clock. It is 5:00pm. I have carved red hearts into my arm. My hair follicles grew an inch more. 

I am wilted with an urgency for green companions in my wardrobe. I am stunted by my inability to survive without modern feminism poking my shoulders with hair pins. It is 9:00pm, I must spend the night writing poetry & do it all again when the time is right, when my eyes aren’t dry from blue light pipelining the walls, full of green, turquoise, pink photography

resembles a Black woman singing in front of jazz musicians. 

I bought Australian cowboy boots after I saw a white girl wear them. She looked like a crow in a black/ feathered stitched dress made for Coachella. I acquired what she wears but I can’t wear her skin, not yet. I have plenty in the nighttime to take, if you peel brown layers off, what is left is an orange/

uncertain, soft enough to break into pieces that spill all over the kitchen counter. 

slippery 

pieces 

soak the paper cuts on my thumbs

- burn 

i do 

miss the city 

when she was quiet 

she didn’t need to be a fashion icon

only an artist 

without pain

but burning desire 

blushed with hope 

for good things to come 

whistles from her dog

son of sam 

with a gun

they hate love 

i hate who i can be

without it

I turn the kettle on. Its handles have an encrusted design of a dying rose. I worry that hot water petals will begin to fall off the surface which would be inconvenient as I would have to grab a broom to wipe off pieces. 

I am content with the steam/

if it reaches my pores

rather 

it chews 

like a moss plant in secret that has been starved for days without water 

by an evil man who wishes the labor would end 

i don’t mind labor 

- i said that yesterday. Before I knew it came with a swelled nose, hemorrhoids, ankle swelling, nasal congestion, heartburn, insomnia, & death. Decently enough, it was the nose that knocked my senses in. I need my nose. It is everyone’s favorite from the side profile only. They speak on her eyes being a perfect cat eye with already curled lashes, her rosy cheeks full of youth, the button nose as petite as the eyes of Other Mother from Coraline, she’ll look young forever, she’ll look like a deer who has never existed before, like she could exist with freckles or glasses and still look authentic b/c her hair compliments the rest of her body, and her height is conveniently adorable. Her spirit is much like a horse in the wind, but horses don’t drink coffee/

the way she does, 

when she slurps her matcha & gets it all over her white cropped shirt without a care in the world because clothes are temporary and living is forever but I could never think that way as I am my things.

Sarina Greene