katiewest

I belong in an old house, this I understand. Not because I have an old soul, as some small children, or young women have, but because I enjoy being antique. I want to sit still and have you take my photograph. Preserve me forever amongst peeling paint and faded lamp shades, with pretty beads that hang and dangle and throw light across my face. I'll pose walking alongside dusty dining toom tables, my fingers lifted and covered with grey film, not noticing you or your camera. Just part of the setting, part of your dreams, sepia dreams. I'll wear pearls and chewed lace while my heels click on bubbled tiled floors and up creaking staircases. You can find me in an attic, covered in cobwebs and naming spiders. Twisting my hands in my hair, twisting string in my hands, creating first move cats cradles time and time again, looking for someone to join me. But antiques are not to be played with. So I sit in empty parlours with empty tea cups looking out delicate curtains into wild yards with flowers I cannot semll, or touch, or comprehend. You can move soundlessly in front of me and take my picture, perfectly maintained inside these swaying walls. (I'll have a sad piano soundtrack played by a young girl in curls and bows.) Protect me forever because I belong here, to be viewed and never understood. To be mysterious and to fade. To be kept close to your breast, but outside your heart.