TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
on a night so seemingly seamless, she navigates body and heart through a forest much-traveled by little red riding hoods blissfully unaware of wolves hunting hungry, and witches who roast children for dinner, and fathers who abandon their sons and daughters while mothers turn away, weeping.
the only light is a precarious thread lent by a pale orange moon, a thread easily severed by a shadow, dubious motive, the gleaming of a heavy pair of scissors, a sudden sob.