push me around a bit, shake my pockets, I store everything in my mouth

Dreams of my death seem to be a November trope, but last night, they left me with this weird, raw feeling. All day I've just wanted secretly to be pretty, which seems like the shallowest, stupidest thing, and a poor reaction to vivid imaginings of death by exsanguination. I feel self-conscious. Maybe it's a fierce little counter-surge to mortality. (Or maybe it's this hot new red bra putting a bit of extra fire in my chest.)

I'm thankful for hot new red bras in the face of death unpredictable joys, hot pink dregs in the sky from a leftover sunset, scalding hot alive showers.