EN MEMOIR

I write this journal set in the perspective of a vintage woman living during the 1920's-1960's. From the eyes & feelings of a classic vintage woman living under the Hollywood lights w/ a side of dark.

I write to you. In solace. In hope that you will give me the peace I've been imagining for too long.
My shoulders are cold and my back aches. My head is heavy, filled with thoughts of undying worry and fret for what's gone and thought of all over again.
Despite everything being so sulken and grey, nonetheless this Visage is still done up.
Every penny I've got left, more to the bank account of my dignity.
The greasy blacker than black liner. To ever so slightly line the tops of my eyes. Traces my curve. The ever so over drawn line of my full lips. Frames so minor it arches to a perfect fade of brown orche. My pale face. Lost of sleep these many days, hours, nights, have left me in a trance of benign. I walk the streets, stare, observe as if everything has this gray underside.
Would you call me out of mind? I would think so. But think not all the same.
I've been suffering this sleep paralysis where I fall into a dark pool of unknownity of which I drown over and over again but can't escape until I drag my unconscious and limb used body awake from this nightmare.
I brush this curled blonde hair and smooth my hands through the metal curls. Run my hands through this face, feeling every microscopic hair and understand how this beauty is so flawed and so easily washed away under the water.
Ahh. The water. My friend.
When I take my cap off, and unveil this veil black dotted around my eyes.
I notice how I can make them fall into my trap.
But my heart has been no one's yet. I'm too proud to give this heart away.
This heart only belongs to me, and always it will only be me.
Yeah. You can call me selfish. I too call me selfish. So selfish to leave this only heart of mine too not be a steak for others to ruck their fork into and cut apart with the butchers knife. The blood Dripping down the nice table. What a shame to the table.
I notice details others around me don't notice. My vision is faster. Microscopic. I'm one of a kind.
These red lips speak of sugar and tingling ecstasy. It steams from my skin and exuberates from my eyes.
A lie Is never a lie. It is always the truth. Everything is dark and lonely. But in me, it's my only light.
I run my hands through these jewels in this tiny chest of my 26th birthday, a directors present for me. Next to my mirror. I put them on sometimes and feel this part. This surge of energy. I feel like Bella bonnet. Belvita Smooth. I run this business on the side with myself and my enemies.
I don't smoke cigarettes.
I don't drink.
I live by the book.
I consume the oz of sweet air but never has let it control me.
I drink shards of ice and a burning liquid caramel gold and expensive.
But no. Never out of the book.
I'm a good person. Just that. I pray to God often. I go to church. Visit my parents. Bring them fresh flowers every Sunday and offer them a part of my earnings from each project. My money is strictly from this side business.
The lights shine me as a pin up. Men and women and young girls ideal of the perfect woman.
But.
I'm anything but perfect.
I bore to sleep. I lie my clothes around. Dump the burned leaves off the buildings top. Let the wind do its job.
My bedroom smells of burned roses and caramel.
They'd think my eyes fool them.
Fool em' good.
Why does every detail trigger every part deep in the dark corners in the back of my mind?

I keep thinking..and thinking..

Some things are vague.

Still vague..

Author's Note

Take a stroll into the dark corners of my mind and my perspective. See how I see things and feel.