"†his is my suicide dress," she †old him.

[†he suicide dress.]

What She Was Wearing​

this is my suicide dress
she told him
I only wear it on days
when I'm afraid
I might kill myself
if I don't wear it

you've been wearing it
every day since we met
he said

and these are my arson gloves

so you don't set fire to something?
he asked

exactly

and this is my terrorism lipstick
my assault and battery eyeliner
my armed robbery boots

I'd like to undress you he said
but would that make me an accomplice?

and today she said I'm wearing
my infidelity underwear
so don't get any ideas

and she put on her nervous breakdown hat
and walked out the door

- by Denver Butson

A journal of anything.​

 

[†he suicide dress.]

Winter still hasn't shaken off, completely, but the afternoon is warm, the sun low, and it transforms the yard and the surrounding farms into a gold-green kingdom, expanded by the mountains, the white-blue sky.

If this is a cage, it seems like it has no boundries.

I would happily stay here my entire life.

 

[†he suicide dress.]

I am going to meet my boyfriend today, at the train station, in the city.

I will wear the same dress I wore last time I made this trip; I like it, it flatters me, tail-cut and dark blue, pink flowers. I feel ready for the city when I wear it, its glassy giants, the crush of people. In this dress I am safe, I am one of them, I am chic and I belong.

My favourite lipstick is a shade of pink that's sweeter than my natural lip colour, glossier. It's running low: it lost its shape, a bullet tube of pink that I have to apply with a careful brush.

I like the taste of it on my lips. I like the taste of it between our lips, when he wraps his arms around me and our kiss deepens. For a moment that kiss tastes of vanilla and it makes me smile against him.

I might wear my hat. They are my latest venture, hats, vintage, older than I am for the most part. He hates every single one but lets me wear them.

I like holding onto when the wind picks up, and we are standing there, in shadows and golden afternoon light, pigeons taking flight and strangers walk all around us.

 

[†he suicide dress.]

moi je joue.

My favourite things for September.​

I am suddenly crazy for Chanel lipsticks; the one here is a bright, vampire red. I wore it out with my boyfriend for dinner in Chinatown, with a peach dress that was far too short and the tiny, glimmering red Swarovski heart he gave me. I felt so removed from myself, done up with dark smokey eyes and that red, red mouth. The silk stockings that I am always so careful with and the heels that I never wear at home. The messy, romp-in-bed-hair. It was thrilling, being that. Sometimes I think there is two dual personalities within me, that split me neatly down the middle.