The Trickster.
I like the way my earrings sway when I move, when I am driving, when my head turns.
I like the way music makes me feel hope again.
I like how warm my feet and legs get in the morning when I blast my space heater under my desk.
I like the dusky colors of the sunrise this week.
I like passing trucks, I know they can never catch me.
I like the smell of smoke in the late morning, even though it indicates danger.
I like the dancing flame from my lighter.
I like to think of fire held in a man's hand.
I like the guy that plays harmonica in the parking lot at work. Appropriate for prison.
I like that Phil always says good morning.
I like the color of my nail polish.
I like shiny black cars.
I like glass. And glasses.
I like watching people in nice clothes riding bikes.
I like skirts. And dresses.
I like remembering.
---
I remembered the last time someone talked to me like that. I thought it had never happened, and as I was rinsing my hair, I remembered.
Max. Yelling at me in our bedroom in San Francisco. Telling me to shut the fuck up, over and over, raising his hand. And I ran for the bathroom, took cover in the shower. But he caught me. Right before his fist collided with my mouth, he shouted, "SHUT THE FUCK UP, CARIE."
08.15.13 || 6:17 am
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