`’- types of people as days of the strange
monday’s daughter is a copper being. she is the strange wistfulness of used books and dark circles under russet eyes that are more enigmatic than lost sleep. she is brown lipstick smeared on her front tooth and old perfume bottles that remind her of amber and stone.
tuesday’s daughter is silver hellfire, a valkyrie in her own right. she is marble skyscrapers, the clean, milky blue sky offset by the bruised tones of an uncontrollable flame. she is loud bracelets that serve as her armor and piercing eyes for swords. she is clouds yet to form and storms yet to ravage.
wednesday’s son is wet sand and black ink. he is crooked calligraphy and bamboo sticks that collect themselves in mishaped glass vases. he is kafka on the shore but the whimsy is wasted on him. he is centuries grown within a millennial born yesterday and somehow through the weight of the world, he holds on to questions unanswered.
thursday’s son is the gentle tones of rotting earth in old growth forests. budding trees against the unfurling of storm clouds, daffodils still glistening with raindrops. wisteria and smoke color his fingertips, bleeding the scent of musty, abandoned log cabins. he is self destructive but not without a tragic smile, his accent that of foreign tongues with vowels the sound of redwoods falling.
friday’s daughter has a mind like a diamond, a disco ball reflecting the colors of the flashing dark and lives in infectious whispers. she is cold mint tea, forgotten in the rush to leave the world behind in favor of music that pulsates to your very core. she feeds off neon signs blaring into the night and her breath is invitingly toxic. her eyeliner is winged to be sharp enough to cut skin and her afternoons are non-existent.
saturday’s son is honeycomb, pomegranate seeds and raw meat; he is earthquake tempers, wordless lullabies and a body full of stories. his lips are glossy, too red to be natural, and his bruised knuckles are lattice cobwebs of capillaries. he doesn’t smoke but in his pocket there will always be a golden lighter, a flick away from burning the sunsets down.
sunday’s daughter is overripe peaches with faded off-white, she is dangling her feet off a dangerously high terrace to feel the sun on her face and adrenaline silently course through her limbs. she loves classic movies but never the sad ones, her blood is sweet iced tea and her eyes are the color of the evening laughter. she is carefully carefree and only owns broken, vintage mirrors.