Found this envelope I had written on awhile ago.


"What color would you like?" she asked. I looked for blood and smiled sweetly.
Fingernails that shine like desire because justice is a few years ahead of me. I thought about love as they made me a woman. Made me mud masks instead of mud pies and I said, "It's all the same to me." But what is love? Is it the reason fingers and toes are laquered with come hither? Is it why face is rubbed smooth and sealed with cold cream? All for this thing called love? It ends up with barefeet and sweatpants and drinking tea and looking at the paper. But does it start with pharamones and laquered fingers and glowing cheekbones and a few pressing questions?
"What color would you like?" I looked for blood because we might as well start honest.