It’s a white truth we like to tell ourselves, that there is room in this world for the Unconventional Beauty. And red ink makes you younger
“Anyone can be pretty if they try”, if they rip out their teeth, root by bitter root, and plant them down along the plod, again.
A giant "fuck you" to your teeth. I have a toothbrush and a hand stretched out on a puddle of paint.

Sometimes, I just can't work on something.  I was frustrated and anonymous, as one is when all her writing alludes to "you" alone.  And I want to go back and make my words better—concise and "beautiful"—but the words lay there and do what I want while crumbling under other people's obscurity—like with these words.  Frustration.  I thought that writers controlled words, but sometimes I feel pushed into a mosh pit of moving words, grinding because they grind.  Leaving the bright lights with bruises and not-quite-right hearing.  Stumbling and crawling on the war-torn pavement until I open my eyes again and forget how I bled home.
My clothes are still white.  My eyes are still dry. 
Tell me the blood is still there.