all is vanity sputter sputter

i am the first to admit that i look awful and out of place in the summertime and people avert their eyes in genteel pity. like a dog on its hind legs i barely make it around town, looking ungainly and slightly haggard. my brythonic skin is waxy-cold when my insides are boiling and i shine like i'm molded from white melting lard. because i am.
by necessity i go to work with my hair covered in a riveter kerchief and i become increasingly covered with flour throughout the day, black clogs or converse sneakers and knee length cut off denim shorts the only shorts i own, faded black band tee shirts. i wilt and only want to drink lemonade, i don't try.

when the first of the cold comes i can be myself, the locked away parts can be swathed in many soft layers of clothing again, no need to hide in the cool shady interior guts land. there are dr. marten floral boots, tights of every conceivable pattern, bells and old old tiny rings on the fingertips, edwardian skirts and handknit jumpers with ears, wild hair, violet lips, mulberry or black or emerald nail varnish, glossy black wellingtons, pavlov posad scarves, vintage floral dresses, fragrances of smoke, sap, cold air, apple, mullein, pine, patchouli, incense, burning leaves, green herbs, turned earth, porridge and caravan tea. i muse on the perfect antique locket that i have never found, lacing my boots with black ribbon, cutting thumbholes in an irish fisherman sweater. i have a wishlist a mile long, georgian memento mori rings, catbird baubles.

today is the day that i let go of everything. today is the day that i only have things to look forward to; a better life here or a better life alone. it's my choice and my beloved boots will take me there, even if there is here. i set the church on fire.
i can keep this whole last bit a secret and it diminishes its power none. it's still a green flame in my brain.