|who else but me looks down at there feet|
|Creepy hand formations|
|Trying to learn how to fly any suggestions|
Je suis wearing
romper- from girl's best friend Forever 21 similar one here
widest belt i own- vintage
button down- J. crew
Kimono fringe thingy- Urban Outfitters similar one here
clog seen in only on of these pictures- slightly used (vintage)
Creepy Witch photos with weird kimono taken by Mary Frisby
Recently i wrote an Ode. Now you probably puzzled right now staring at your computer screens thinking what is an Ode something you feed a horse or something in an entire different class maybe its a species of alien? Well an Ode is none of the above. An Ode is a letter like poem written about a deeply appreciated event, occasion, thing, place exc. Or in My case my midget size closet.
Now presenting my deep meaning poetic Ode to that room inside a room, a closet..............
Ode to My Closet
You bear 3 white walls with a door barely attached to its hinges,
You hold some of my greatest treasures
To my fringe kimono, that does not want to break its hold from anything, anything.
To my lavender graduation dress like graduating elementary school deserves a full blown out ball gown.
You are a jar full of fireflies.
A square box that holds tiny pieces of light that I treasure as if they were life.
One of these tiny glass light bulbs of light that illuminate the empty darkness within my closet is that of the white shearling fur shrug that hangs on a matching white plastic hanger
All though I oppose of anything of real fur the clean white fur on this shrug is just lovely and makes me feel as if I were a polished wealthy lady floating down white marble steps while money floats about me as I fan myself with hundred dollar bills supplying myself a brief cool relief.
But my dear closet puzzles on whether or not to spit this white fur shrug out fore it does not match anything else that hangs on white plastic hangers.
And for this the fur object floats about the rows and rows of silk and cotton obviously the oddball in the group.
And my closet knows this it makes this perfect white object stand out telling me it does not belong it should not be there among the rest of my rugged clothing.
That is how well this tiny room inside a room knows me it knows what I am and what am not, a rich lady who fans herself with money
You, room inside an room, are a shoebox of memories, you bear the pink t-shirt scattered with graphic cherry blossoms and red sauce stains that reminds me of the great pasta I had from my short lived Washington D.C. trip and how I wish to go back there one day.
I once was afraid of you. You, who has become Girl’s best friend,
I once thought you held Lord Voldemort, with his overgrown fingernails and pasty pale skin, behind your white closed door. I would lay awake staring up at the small hole on my arched ceiling, the hole that once held a pink canopy to protect me from you.
The situation has surly changed.
In Later years when I started to develop into more of a character you grew as well the row and rows of cloths mounted to squish together against the rock hard white wall.
When my friends and I played hide and seek and they hid in your dark interior. They knocked over the poles that held my tiny bulbs of light. Blanketing your dark mahogany floor with suede dresses, velvet coats, and silk garments. It was then at that time that I realized I cared for you.
I cared if your admirably interior fell like a Knight falling in battle
I care now if you are disorganized like my social studies binder
Though you are small and dark with the only color from your interior being the very subtle rays of color pigment that reflects off of my valuable wear.
You contain golden treasures of fur, silk, and velvet.
You have a deep musky smell. You smell of feet (because I despise socks).
Your smell is a sweaty natural stink mixed in with the smell of the seaside detergent that brings me to the giant waves of Montauk.
This is a smell that is unidentified though it stinks like the fumes of a skunk I enjoy it ever so.
Fore it reminds me of you.
I know if I had any posters of cute boy bands that they would be plastered on one of your 3 small walls.
But I don’t.
You remind me everyday that my sense of style is different then the normal girls.
You remind me that I prefer to wear dresses and heels over jeans and sneakers
It is you, dear closet, that I look at as a reflection of myself you are a mirror of my self and that is why I am ever so fond of you.
You hold the extra layer of skin that I place on my self to make me uniquely me.
One day far away you may be replaced.
Your stuffed up interior now hollow like an Oreo loosing its stuffing.
But as I lay my eyes years from now on your dark mahogany floor no longer covered with a thick layer of shoes.
I will emanate a bittersweet smile thinking to my self there is nothing like you Women’s best friend, the closet