A Letter to a Lost Vixen in California

You were conduit for the loneliest grabs, the scrappiest tugs at somebody that can comfort with eyes that gorge and drug these temporary nerve tangles.  He loved you for putting the faceless encounters at the tip of his fingers – so he can squirm away from the proper that ought to be said.  One last night, your family put you away forever – the young woman that they raised to be so giving, so free forever will dance away from mortal sinners.  Before this minute, there was shock and the night that would forever be canceled at your call to now rest once and for all.

You went over the edge, lost in social media crazes and cocktail of pain crushing pills. You couldn’t track what you soaked in, confusing chemical cocktails.  When others declined your body opened for all absolute and positive to the touch of so many strange, oily and grubby hands.  Love is so impure rallying together everything base and confused, drawing out the lonely from their sleepy quarters.  For a decade or so, you brought out the excitement and adventure from the repressed slinging puritanism with every protest.  Your response was to show the desire that drove you, the heart that danced into everyone’s homes.​

Your story will be told to those who have fallen through the same cracks that you have.  Your public vixen life will be seen by those who know, seen at your youthful and craven best and worst without your ever holding a gentle hand again.  One’s work is never the story of a person’s life -it’s the activities that consume the day in order to keep famine and destitution away.   These activities do not make up the whole of one’s identity and these tales that gorge the eyes will not be your true identity. Rest gently, California girl, let the dancers of last night crawl away at these finger tips that tie to whispering lips.

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