My life has taught me one lesson, and not the one I thought it would.

There is nothing in this world that could prevent me from loving you, except maybe being both drunk and gay. I know that I am a very strong woman because each day I have existed within Mother Earth's grasp I have successfully overcame the urge to tear these photos off the wall and strip soul from body. Just because you do not want to believe something does not mean it is not true. What idiot has you convinced that truth is beautiful? The children know the king will not end their misery, so an endless reelection remains. My only desire is to be a part of this new wonder because how awful to simply accept fate, how awful to not rise up with fists and fight, how awful to sit stagnantly. And it is a failed day if I have spent more of my day within a bra than sans brassiere.

Mama cried when I put ink on my ribs. I am ruining my body and the damage seeps into my soul. Age is a restriction we have placed upon ourselves for centuries, but I own your emotions, and pass the revolution via kiss. I suppose everything has a purpose, and from her perspective, mine is to sit still, and kindly abandon my angst, adorn myself in kitschy apron-esque frocks and slick pinned strands. So, unsatisfied I forever remain, tarnished and broken.

Oh, what is comfort if not a change in perspective?

Spitting Blade Memory Regurgitation

When I proclaim the creativity seeping from your pores is to blame for the dampness of your skin, you dispute me with a claim that no beauty could have come from you. "It's just the rain," you say while locked within a dry bolt room.

My fingers trace across a slightly sloped spine, dreams have been weighing you down, chase them and watch yourself bloom. Turning, I can no longer fit myself into such a paradoxical juxtaposition. Your faulted desire to be taller accompanied by a lifetime spent between dope-tinted lens crammed within the corners of heart-shaped boxes.

Open your mouth, invite me inside to greet leathery cheeks and absorbent tongues. Unused dull teeth who nowadays exclusively chew misery and regret hors d'oeuvres. Each attempt to escape the depressive clutch that is yourself is met with an ever increasing tighter squeeze as we cram together like last season's garments, my world, an overstuffed clothing rack. How can there always be less of you? And how do so many ideas sleep forever dormant coiled within such a slender frame? Venturing, bitter but sweet, I am drowning, but you would still describe the water.

Sitting within me now I hate the way life besides you tastes. A sly reply of misery pours down my throat only to rest in my stomach for eternity. I know you would end me, if it meant you could remain a coward. Chokes frame our faces like smiles, everything blurs, melting into a voodoo realm, she's gone, I'm here, but you are live from nowhere near.

Refusal to recall hello or goodbye, but when you split yourself into a planned pattern I felt my face crack into a series of streams. Letters that long ago have grown foreign, spill out the optimism we once clung to, struggling veins softly crying to stain a shy pale skin I once naively believed was capable of reality.

Mother and child, cop versus criminal, broken china, how did we cascade into such opposing forces? You absorb into me, blemishing my soul. My inscribed name together with yours, it was goodbye for sure, I just wish I knew for whom.

Fashion, because naked people have no influence in society.

When it comes to fashion design there are two schools of thought. The first one being that fashion is born in the minds of established designers who showcase their creations on runways which is then diluted for the everyday person into affordable variations. Conversely, the second school of thought presents fashion as something bred in the street by off-beat trendsetters who, in their ironic refusal to follow mainstream fashion, inspire designers worldwide. Personally, I have always viewed fashion from the latter perspective. Obviously, my work here on The Onyx Clam is not fashion-oriented, but I recognize the beauty in the give-and-take element of the art of dressing, and as a result, will always have a profound respect for devoted fashion bloggers. Blogging serves as the ultimate way to communicate ideas and galvanize action. Regardless of a blogger's mission, fashion-orientated or not, blogging is an instrument for giving every person (with internet access) a public platform to express their personal vantage point. It is an honor to be a part of cultural dialogue regarding the ways in which people choose to express themselves, rather visually, verbally, artistically, etc.

Fashion is the sole art form in which everyone is obligated to participate on a daily basis. Now, that being said, all art forms exist as a privilege. What a luxury to have the time and freedom to focus on developing your own personal aesthetic as a tool of self-expression. Each moment we have to riffle through the hat racks at our local thrift shop, read Jane Aldridge's blog, or play dress-up with our great aunt's costume jewelry is another moment that we do not worry about the myriad of problems that plague much of the world. However, a poetic beauty remains in the fact that every day one possesses the opportunity to turn every individual with whom they encounter into a member of their audience. I am forever grateful for the chance to participate in aesthetic culture, but I am especially awed by all those who choose to join me.

To everyone stuck spending the holidays with their bigoted relatives.

To everyone stuck spending the holidays with their shitty racist/sexist/homophobic/transphobic/classist relatives, you do not have to love these people just because they are family. I actively avoid multiple members of my family not because of the manner in which they treat me, but because of how they treat members of the LGBTQ+ community, people of color, or their general xenophobic world view. The weird thing is, long ago have I stop preaching at/to my family. No longer do I start debates with them over social justice concerns. Honestly, I do not think that human welfare at all interests them and I do not really value their opinions about anything of substance anyway. However, even if you are not actively probing people on their thoughts on gender inequality or immigration reform you learn their opinions after years of hearing subtle comments seep in. And then, one day you realize...holy shit my grandma/aunt/sibling/cousin fucking sucks. It is an uncomfortable realization, but you are allowed to think that person fucking sucks, because guess what? They fucking do suck. Furthermore, being a great grandma/sibling/parent/aunt/etc. does not qualify someone as a great person. I do not feel guilty about recognizing that and as I continue to age and gain independence I will continue to choose not to see or be around such relatives. So, in conclusion, sorry for all of the fucked up shit you will have to hear your family members say tonight and tomorrow --- and here's to solidarity making it through the holidays without puking all over our sparkly 'fits.