No one can rage quite like the girls.
These girls will vent at unholy levels, raucous jet engines and screaming, make us feral. Then we'll sit. Soothe. We'll braid each other's hair maybe, collapse on the floor pouring wine and sweating into tiles. We'll recite our poetry to each other and our laughs will sound out, with the sweet bells of a winter church service (Even our laughs will be harmonic). Then dried flowers will hang from the ceiling, and she'll find long candles for the wine bottles. We'll discuss politics and find the lump from deep in our throats is made of the same stuff, the same. We'll lean tired frizzy heads against each other's shoulders and snuggle into nests, spine sunken, wine drunk. We'll try not to cry after doing our skincare, and we'll take out a penknife from our purses to cut the fruit. We'll dance around the conservatory and scream about the soil.
No one can rage like me and my girls. We'll comb our fury into our hair and sew our heartbeats into the silence.
YOU ARE READING
FEMANIA
General Fiction❝ it was like the words had been ready to spill at any minute and this moment, with the cherry laced smoke from the new cigarette, and the fresh sweetgrass on the breeze from the school field, the coolness of the Formica tiles on her thighs, and the...
