She wears rouge lip stain, the kind that comes in a polish container. She paints her nails with it too, she does it with dirty hands. Her house is full of bookshelves. Books about bodies, art, sex, music, rebellion. She owns enough books you could build castles out of them and hide in the shapes of their stories. Her favorite perfume is Chanel number 5. She thinks it smells like an old woman but wears it as a badge of honor cause she bought it with her hard-earned money. There is a scarf draped over every lamp in the house casting the walls in kaleidoscope patterns and colors. Each lamp threatens to start a fire dancing on the dull edge of catastrophe. The floors and corners of the house littered with fur from pets she can’t afford but her heart is just that big she has the room to spare. She owns miscellaneous pairs of tights, each pair is ripped, and she won’t ever throw them away. Her closet is congested with millions of heels, she simply can’t help herself. She journals her fantasies and wears her body proud. She daydreams about museums and the daughter she will name after her father’s mother. Before bed every night she looks in the mirror, paints her lips red and gives herself a kiss goodnight. She is wholly, devoutly, absolutely in love with herself.
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