I could easily wear a wedding gown without ever thinking of marriage, you know that. You must know that. I could wear thousands of mournfol black feathery hats and not drop a single tear. I wanted to go down and place my body next to that low summer-dried water, I wanted to start playing with some dusty Barbie dolls, pink glittery motocycle fair-haired plastic long-legged forgotten embodiments of a girl who didn’t know anything else beisdes playing. Now they’re stuffed in plastic bags, their missing hair and hands, their arms and knees don’t bend anymore, they’ve left my soul in charge with that. I’ve always wondered why Polly Jean’s always moaning about something and why I find it so viscerally fluidly completly arousing. She always puts so much red lipstick on some already oversized full lips and she starts enganging in endless dialogues with all the little girls she’s left behind. She thinks about herself sometimes as being a younger daughter that needs some saviour, who needs to be thaught to stop playing for a change.
There’s always so much pain in brushing your doll’s hair, you feel like you’re trapped somehow, it feels basically the same but you know it isn’t real, you’re crushed by the reality of hair not growing if you cut it.
I only had one Ken in all my life, one real Ken, his hair wasn’t just plastic, you could brush it, I would brush it, he had this obnoxius white smile, his arms where somewhow bent in the eternal perfect position inspiring confidence and coolness. He would never sleep with the original Barbies that could bend their arms and legs, he would always prefer the stiff cheap plastic ones. My dolls have always served as instruments for my daily projections and fantasies about myself, I know, but now they’ve become hollow images of how one should never become. Their features are crooked and there’s so much heat melting their plastic existence and an eye-stinging smell.
Polly Jean is all about wide-open wounds, leather boots kicking everything around and shouting your guts out loud.
Polly Jean wants you to remember her, she wants you to see how skinny her legs really are, how she puts oil on them, how she hurts herself so you can start healing her quickly.
Polly Jean is mad, bloody, a liquid goddess always ready to petrify herself into the woman you think you need.
Polly Jean is raw and rage, boy and girl, woman and bed, legs and lace underwear, leather and stones, knives, bones and stormy winds.
Let me ride, let me ride on his grace for a while.
You need black for Polly Jean, you need your face covered in black and you sitting quietly by the river.
The widow hat is never optional.
It has never been and it has always been about death, my darlings.
pictures by dad
post dedicated mostly to Cristina from Five inch memories
dress turned into crop top from The Dear Hunters