The chapparall and arid santa ana winds not a caress and not a threat but at least an acknowledgement
poetry and flowers the language of love and death the sad pool full of rotten leaves and we hang our gods from trees
hell fire and shots fired the girl sneaking out her window, the father figure laying me down in unfinished houses and the boy with glasses
My mother in prison thinking herself out runningandrunningandrunning around in circles i''m painting over her words There''s a beautiful whore next door an acolyte to the religion of Real there''s no grass, only pavement in the yard the beauty leaves and I''m wishing you could see all my ugly on the outside Dogs growl then you can.
I''m starving. stealing butter. my ribs and spine are hazardous and sharp. I don''t care if the others get out.
And claire asks me she gives me she loves me and needs me she''s beautiful and fragile she is timeless, and weak I draw my face drawmyfacedrawmyface and she doesn''t wake up I will never forgive my mother.
there''s the boy who draws comics on envelopes for me kissing. There are suitcases with barbies and bibles closed pantries and too many pills and I''m shuddering and shaking staring at my whole self.
one day I''ll go back and not be my own person be reabsorbed by her selfish womb but I''m fighting it as hard as I can.
(Astrid's mother kills her lover from spite. Astrid journeys through fostercare. It is beautiful and sad. I don't want to ruin it for you.)