GIRLS GONE FERAL
lip: lavender chiffon, buttercream
2018 - 07

A strawberry ice cream cone is melting into a cloudy pink puddle on the sand flats of Joshua Tree; two flies, glittering; a neon red ant emerges and submerges, slick with sugar. A jackrabbit gallops past clumsily, face in profile, its long ears reminding you of: wooden spoons, your mom. Her birthday is tomorrow. You order a letterbox subscription of flowers on your phone’s web browser and they will arrive on time. Your brain shudders: not an aura, though it is the time of day for one.

How many graves are there between you and the house next door? Not animal ones. ‘Don’t be cute,’ you say, without enough expression. That night, he dreams of a chrome filled bubbling lake. Your nose streams mucus in a gentle shade of jade green, and you wake up with his hand resting on your blistered shoulder. A brown and white freckled feather is placed at the end of the bed. At first you thought the desert smelled eerily of nothing, but you realise later it was the smell of hot skin.


Blackstaff Mill, Belfast