Would/Will ; Have/Had

Inspired by painting of a broken female warrior which I saw 20 days ago and now can't seem to find

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We kneel our starry night smudged kneecaps infront of some inches by some vanity mirrors, so clear, even glycerine hides in the non traditional edges of cream jars that may look, to our naive coffee beans dipped in sugar syrup for eyes (or tongues) like miniatures, cosplaying stolen plastic canisters to dump extra helpings of buttercream that melt even on january afternoons, and leave sweet pecks of nine and a quarter heartbreaks worth smooch of ache in the crowns of our teeth.

but dare we numb our unsure skin by devouring the snow painted foam in these petite, doomed "pretty" even, boxes, we would be g off the first draft of hospital bills, from caressing our skin with double digits of chemo therapy, and feeding our flesh to prescriptions' dismantled hand writings and medicines, we'd be making beds with four cushions and fuchsia bedcovers we bought from "duty free" for a parasite to make home in the rims of our already-home-to-wars,-so-many-wars skin, ans we'd, realise, sometimes, 'pretty and petite' rhymes with poisonous metaphorically

our mouths are paper bags to paradoxes of slogans on self love, that spray tan our cinched reflections, stuffed into coffin-like gothic victorian corsets, that nimble on our ribcages, slowly unfurling our heart and lungs from its façade, till

we pump red, but not really.

we breath, but not really.

we live, but not really.

our voices are gliding off from, and our two hundred and some bones, and the the slate of our decade or two summer break old skin of sewn and/or sown doubts, as if our bodies are our voices' preys, and they, those bloody blood sucking python in another of australian mown meadow. we curl ourselves in sugar coated myths :

maybe this is how we all live.

maybe this is how we're meant to live.

maybe, this is it.

THIS IS NOT "IT".

OUR BODIES ARE NOT "IT"

they are worth so much more than a generation's indulgment of penalizing their flesh with commercialised bullets in the name of flowers; we know 'smoking kills', "but so does living", we say, and make smoke rings with our chapped lips and wear them in our hair, like fireflies, or halos, even, and make our already malfunctioning lungs repent, some more.

our blades for fingers make love to keyboards in search for buzzfeed articles that guarantee birthing that athletic body, that comes with drooling men and women and thick layers of life long imprisonment in the form of insecurities, so we feast on canned fish, wrapped and dodged in so much beyond fish, and use our blades to slit our throat and explore our oesophagi, with our decaying carcasses hovering over toilet seats.

for god's sake, even flowers wither, sooner or later

but later, much later, than our bodies

would/ will/

have/ had.

for sure.

In art we're briefly gorgeous.