Kerouac Kids.

I get it. It’s a buzz, literally. It tingles in your knees first, which is odd considering they’re usually just used as cornerstones. Your very foundation begins to sizzle. It’s been so long since I felt my entire body all at once before. The sizzling in the cherry moon is the onomatopoeia accompanying your limb’s newfound jolts. It burns across your scalp and into your eye sockets next. With a heavy head bobbing, your tummy fills with a lovely, ethereal sickness. It’s all consuming. For me, that’s three drags of a cigarette.
A cigarette, with which I’m not looking to build a tolerance again. Three is a lucky number.
It doesn’t matter how many times I smoke. That’s always the outcome. Any more and I want to throw up.
The club around me revels in their outlandish, extraordinary tales. I sit and listen, but I’m not impressed or disappointed. I just want them to know they’re heard. I know my place, and I keep my opinions to myself. I don’t tell them how I feel, because no one wants to hear how someone’s knees feel at the moment. They’re not interested in joints unless they’re lit. But, I get it.

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Kerouac Kids.

Tinted Vision.

When I look into a mirror, I don’t look at myself.  I look at my lips.  Red is the color of power and I am a slave to making sure they stay universally desirable.

When I look into a mirror, I don’t love the rest of myself.  I try to ignore that mauve has made a home for itself below my eyes.  Blue veins with green and violet branches cover my eyelids and hands in tangled, necessary system.  Taupe pockmarks from scratching bug bites when I was a child season my ankles and wrists.  Amber down sprouts in velvet crops beneath my spine and navel.  Gunmetal shadows fill the absence of flesh around my collarbones and cheeks.  A thin canvas of sallow skin pulls my colors together.

When I look into a mirror, I don’t always appreciate what I see.  I’m learning to love my colors and celebrate the painting that has and has yet to come.  Pinks and reds and nudes aren’t the only shades to admire.  Our bodies are rainbows, fleetingly beautiful and priceless.

Tinted Vision.

Skin Deep.

If I were an artist, the idea of a creating a self portrait wouldn’t be so daunting.  I’ve had a long love affair with my particular set of features.  Vanity courses through my veins.  But I’m not an artist.  I’m a writer.  A tangible portrayal would be simple.  My hypothetically dextrous hand would be kinder while duplicating the peaks and valleys of my dearly self-obsessed image.  This representation would be lovely due to the fact that it’s purely physical.  It wouldn’t have any of the truth my inner monologue would whisper sheepishly from a written page.

Skin Deep.