the devil’s weather

So I was like,
“I love you, do not come here in January?”

I’m out in the devil’s weath­er stand­ing at a cross­walk wait­ing for the light to turn, brac­ing my­self against the ac­tu­al ice knives carv­ing into my face when my dopey MF vis­it­ing friend turns to me and says, 

“Isn’t this weath­er ro­man­tic?”

Bitch, I am try­ing not to be found by ar­chae­ol­o­gists per­fect­ly pre­served in an ice­berg 10,000 years from now and you’re talk­ing about romantic. 

Ro­man­tic. Jesus. 

You know what’s fuck­ing ro­man­tic? Rays of sun­light il­lu­mi­nat­ing the sil­hou­ette of linens cling­ing against sun-kissed, sweat-glis­tened skin. Some oth­er po­et­ic shit about the hum of life and flo­ral musk metaphor­i­cal­ly rep­re­sent­ing sex­u­al ac­tiv­i­ty that I’m too cold to come up with right now. 

Sum­mer shit is ro­man­tic. Not bury­ing my­self in forty pounds of fab­ric and try­ing not to slip on the ice while I wad­dle across the street in this frozen hellscape. 

Ro­man­tic. GTFO. Just go. Just fuck­ing go.
 
 

—na­tal­ie michelle

Flom­mist Na­tal­ie Michelle does­n’t have a bio. She just rants. Copy­right © 2017 Na­tal­ie Michelle.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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