The Beige Dress

A bordeaux-red French barret finishes the outfit, perfectly framing my beautiful long hazelnut brown hair, falling down my shoulders in curls and waves, like a dream of golden gloom and glitter. It is an outfit, if nothing else.
My beautifully fucked up boots add the edge to it that makes it my outfit and nobody else’s.
This is the perfect dress for me. See through, for the most part, laced, but well protected by a skin colored underdress. A golden birch-tree leaf on a skinny white gold chain highlights me and my secret parts of golden delish, it pops the dress appropriately, the only way possible.
It ends shortly over my knees which are more boney now, swinging like a fresh spring morning around my legs. The dress is hold back with a shimmering bow at the side, making it hug my curves ever so slightly and I wear no bra because I don't need to. A dark blue jeans jacket holds me together, I feel like a different person but not quite. I feel like a version of me that I have always felt lingering under my skin, trying to get out. The future, as sung by Leonard Cohen takes over and I feel how I plunge into my life like into a deep deep sea that bears many a precious pearl. Without cigarettes, even, but just as well as if with.
Stories that I have read flash in my dulled mind and leave the scenery in a bizzare lighted mess. Stories that I have heard and witnessed and seen and lived dig their claws into my back and leave long traces of deep scratches in it, pulling my bloody skin down, way down to the hard surface of my bones into which they inscribe themselves in indecipherable chiffres and codes that wait to be yet discovered and understood.
If I could I would tell it all, but this year stands under the sign of secrets.
This is why I can’t send you a picture of my gorgeous self, although I really would love to, for vanity’s sake.
But this way you just have to take this for what it is and read my vulnerable attempts to resurrect quivering life in black and white stories.