Under The Pink Harlequin Sunglasses Strawberry Dangling

Everything Was Fine, But Weetzie Wanted A Baby. “how Could You Want One?” My Secret Agent Lover Man Said. “there Are Way Too Many Babies. And Diseases. And Nuclear Accidents. And Crazy Psychos. We Cant Have A Baby,” He Said.

Flowers Are Reincarnation. They Come Out Of The Earth Of Our Ashes. Nothing Else Looks So Soul-like.

You Asked Me Who I Thought I Was Before. I Said Maybe I Was A Fish Because I Love Water And You Said, You Thought A Mermaid, Maybe. If You Were A Mermaid, You Said, If You Were A Mermaid, I Was The Sea.

She Wished She Had A Little Yellow House Of Her Own, With A Flower Box Full Of Real Flowers And Herbs – Pansies And Rosemary – And A Sweet Lover Who Would Swing Dance With Her In The Evenings And Cook Pasta And Read Poetry Aloud.

I Wanted To Die, Then. I Wanted To Destroy The Body I Was Trapped In, Become What She Was, No Matter What It Took. No Matter How Much Mutilation Or Pain. But He Looked Away, At Me. He Pulled My Face Down And Pressed My Lips Against His Like He Was Almost Trying To Suffocate Us Both.