“our hearts are wild creatures. that’s why our ribs are cages” she mutters as she pours the end of her lagavulin bottle on the pile of furs and jewels on her living room floor, with that look on her face like mistakes are just nature’s thrill seekers.
she’s an old soul in an old body. she’s had more than most people ever will. she’s lived beyond the point of giving a fuck, because giving a fuck requires explaining your past to your present.
and that theme has resurrected her old habits.
it’s been 8 days since she left the house, 4 days since she had solid food, and 22 hours until she would fall into a lasting coma beside her fur on the living room floor.
she finally takes a seat next to me, letting her fragile body sink into a love seat that costs more than my chevy parked in her ten-car driveway.
“when i was 8 i broke three ribs” she takes a slow drag of her hand-rolled cigarette, “when they woke me up on the hospital bed asking how it happened, i broke out laughing”
smoke comes out of her mouth and dances away from her lips in the shape of poorly-drawn circles, and for the first time during my 3 hour visit to her home, she looks up at me,
“i found it funny that the doctors didn’t realize how wild a heart can be.”
“DRUGS” CREW NECK SWEATER by Batoko
Photos by Cachet