just dyed my hair!

Just because my love falls around in the weeds
We'll lay our thoughts for the devil to take his needs
On the rails of my darkening sureties
I rode the way to my own barbarity

All my prayers that never never set me down
From all the kindly like a discarded frown
Sets the blaze on the way to making me feel free
And now I can roam just like the breeze

Just like the breeze

it's just...

A little crush.

They never seem "little," though.
Sure, they start out with little things--the color of his socks, the way he pronounces certain words, his old beat up jeans--but soon enough, they start ballooning out of control. Not that I'm complaining, really. It's strange and exhilarating and I am almost addicted to that feeling. It's especially strong right after I realize that I have a crush on someone and it's just like this super sweet secret that only I know but cannot wait to babble about. I get so giddy that every time he walks into a room, my entire body starts fluttering and I can't help but smile and giggle to myself. The real fun is in telling everyone but your crush about it.

Crushes never last, though; the word itself implies something quick, intense, and even a little painful. But I don't mind, as long as I'm the one who does the crushing.
  • Current Music
    Goodbye Emmanuelle - Serge Gainsbourg & Jane Birkin

the world is bursting open

My grandmother defied her parents and refused to marry at a respectable age, forsaking her chance at a life she had lived before—was already living in. What was she seeking that she had yet to find?

And my grandfather: handsome, kind, gentle, young—younger than she. How did they meet how did their love grow why did she let down her wall and let him in?

Her teeth were blackened, two rows of lacquered stones strung together in her mouth. They did it to make her more beautiful--a handful of bartering tokens to entice men looking for a meek creature to take home.

“They will look at you and know—she, she will be a good wife.”

She didn’t want to do it, but who was she to turn the tide?

The dye burned the soft flesh on the inside of her cheeks. It stung, but not as much as her father’s taunts. They cut away at her insecurities, turning them into big, gaping wounds.

“Who do you think you’ll attract with that face and those teeth—a French man? Ha! Better to dye them black and save yourself the embarrassment,” he sneered.

She could never smile quite the same, her lips parted only slightly to reveal the dark glint, nothing more. She despised them, but mostly she hated herself for giving in.

She looked heartbroken and menacing—but she at least felt the latter. In many ways, she prided herself on scaring men away with her determined scowl and distaste for delicate language. No one could say that she was weak.

But to be heartbroken, to be thought of as such, that…she wasn’t so sure.