Mia Sara - Google Blog Search

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PANK Magazine / My Birthday Suit Posted: 19 Dec 2012 11:03 AM PST [7.14 / December 2012] It's a risky business, dressing myself. Naked, I am least exposed. I was built from the outside in, swaddled early in soft, fibrous love grafted onto my raw bones in tight stitches, so I could bear myself upright. Now, it's difficult. Every morning, I find my seams have gaped. When I walk from my bed to the toilet, the burlesque clatter of beads dogs my steps. I leak a trail of sequins from between my thighs, attracting the crows. I am turning inside out. I can reach inside and finger the soft, wet nap of my life, and digging deeper into my disgorged trunk, pull a rag of lace, bitten by my bile into delicate patterns, to hold up to the light. My skin is nothing, I am turning inside out. I cannot find the dress that was my mother. Whipcord pleated habit. The hobbling platform boots that were my father's shoulders have lost a silver buckle. A carnival panic rises from the folds of my true nature tangled at my feet, in intestinal shreds, My skin is nothing. I can't get everything back inside, and I cannot leave without it; I will have to put it on, all of it.

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