Poms poms in the closet, or who are you am i ever anyway?

March 17, 2014


They’re not tassels, exactly, but they twitch and glimmer to the same titillation. The shaking the yelling, dancing legs, short skirts, status. Sparkle and shine, all the shine you aspire to when you’re formless yet and self-less. Not selfless with giving, rather without your own self. Crammed, maybe, full of many other selves you try on or wish hard for, your make believe pony-riding self your songwriting self, your beautiful girl self, the one with the mother and the boy who loves her, that secret dream boy that doesn’t have a face or a name but has a very important spot in your, no not your heart but your soul. Your soul. He completes you. And if he doesn’t fit, whoever you wish he might be, if it’s not exactly a…him…that completes you, but a song sung by your crushing-hard pop star you want to be like, or your dad’s favorite folk singer, or the trail into the forest deep in the books you lose yourself into, if it’s those that say they are your soul, your very soul, then, yes, you are they are you are longing, longing for the swish and the twirl and the sound, dense and giving, of the pom poms making you rise like a beautiful, like a pony with wings, but better, like a Barbie, but alive, and loved, by every every every every one, every one. Loved. Without even trying. Without trying. Shake shake hustle shimmy shake.

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