The Champagne Soapbox

My little trinkets and toys. We have a birthday and your wedding and some babies. We share the attention we once yearned for, until it reaches overseas. Until the fat man sings about how unlucky stardust could be sand for another rich man’s feet. Can mankind be resolved of egocentric immaturity? The gift of witness is protective from decomposition’s mystery.

Stop motion claymations in rouge and puckered smiles. I put my fingers between the layers of tulle and scratch them together. Clacking wood toes on the ground, staring out at the staircase with eager eyes to blue eyeshadow and tights. Yellow chalk to grind the tops of your nails on. 

I’ve tried not to outgrow the colors of my youth. 

My closet looks like beige mush. 

I’ve slicked back my hair so long that the edges don’t return. My cat and I shed the same out of hair. I shed so much hair and nails and emotion. The things I do and watch and endure for the betterment of soul. Eager to yearn betterment when all I’ve learned is earned. 

Our cars become sunburned and healed. Peel at the skin of my lips and press rouge into my toughened maturity. Homogenized mush will be mushed so much that my moisture will wicker and my throat will produce the familiar booming laughter. An echo for, and my siren noise to call them back again.

Holy love water soaking up the flick of your youth’s cigarette in spite of your purity. The candle hints over between the wall and I, white mush. Stickers in the grass, in between toes, pick apart by fingers and found in my hair. Just put on my jacket if you want the hug. Give it back to me when you’re done.