Olivia McDermott Potentially The Furniture Game
Her hair is a chameleon that has lost its camouflage abilities and her eyes are the two moons of mars and her blink is a recessing tide and her teeth are starved lone wolves covered in snow and her mouth is a lit match. Her nostrils are fine-tuned pieces of scientific equipment and her cheeks are proof that women suffer and her smile is a doctorate degree in action, and her voice is cake in the afternoon or an alarm in a dream and her laugh is morse code. Her questions are applying Pythagoras’ theorem to problems involving rain
and her arguments are faulty streetlamps and her ears are shells full of sand and floating.
Her neck is the complicated part of a map and her arms are the East and West of a compass and her hands are running water, or contour lines and her fingers are sodden branches and both thumbs are pastries. Her shadow is the lead when you go too far, and her compliments are intricate pieces of laced material, and her heart is the phrase: check mate, after hours of playing. Her shoulders are eroded soft rock beneath years of longshore drift, and her back is where the sun meets the night. Her stomach is a reminder of home, and her legs are jelly and cream
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