Jaded Nostalgia

Petite pearls and delicate fans frame her memories filled with veiled emerald burdens. No splatter left unclean, but the stain soaks deep. Deeper than language and dusty film lying unnoticed in soot covered closets. Her roots are afar but her dreams are so near. She dreams of strength from messiness, of uncovering a mask strung gracefully by her cradled crimson past. She dreams of becoming the vines that flow through an arabesque aura in her mind so she can wrap her leaves around the American Way. A way of green crisp money, of gold flecks that illuminate her kitschy desires for material aesthetic pleasure. Guilt clouds no part of her wishes, it only feeds her ambitious defiance. She’s not a girl, not a woman, but somewhere in-between. The lettering of her ancestors is always somewhere deep, but she prays it stays there because the surface is a new glorious manifestation of her unrefined youth.