Oh, Zo. Perhaps, one of these aureate, glaring mornings, glossy and heavy with sleep, you’ll awake to find a silverlined invite to a ragtag support group. One that has wrangled those who share your candied, poison-apple sentiments of being envenomated by this arachnid. Touched by this whetted, steel ribcage, hammered into the shape of a dagger, bent into the final geometry of a girl, and her (formerly) highly contemptible ways. She is often stashed into the trunk of somebody's mind, like a deadweight, their worst memory; where to dump its festering remains? Some catalyst that came before their lives collapsed. Just leave her, Shakespeare would say, to those thorns, which in her bosom lodge to prick and sting her.
She’s enshrouded in some antithetically innocuous floral, a deviation from the usual nightmarish black of her vvitchy trousseau, balancing her sharp heels on the scotchgrain dash. Cigarette smoke writhes up from where she’s got her little fangs dug into the minkwhite neck of a filter. She plucks a mini bottle of scentless lotion out of the casket of her McQUEEN tote and cavils, “I’m so itchy.” as she initiates slathering it onto her legs.
Then, grinning over, the feline says, “Looking for a good time? By the looks of this heap of shit Honda, I don’t think you can afford me.”