Velvet Envy entered this world insidiously, cloaked in the deep green of midnight jealousies. Each furtive glance, each raging romantic tempest, increases her solidity. In societies of great harmony, she hardly exists, manifests as a shadow of herself, a ghostly apparition half-seen in the mirror. Here, though, she's fully fleshed and will drain you of your senses. A natural enchantress, spells come easily to her, as languages to a young child, and she may bewitch you if you're not violently protecting your morals. Velvet is soft and gentle, dark and devious; you'll swear you never trusted her yet trust her still. She's a warm companion or a seductive ensemble, but as night swallows the sunshine you find she's permanently untamed, a creature of the wilderness, a singer of sweet sirens' songs.
She likes it here, enjoys the strangeness of embodiment, the ripples of poetry through parted lips. Poetry, like Envy, is called forth into the world through small moments, becomes fuller the more it is considered, acquires body through speech. Velvet, unsure of her age, sleeps inside grandfather clocks, befriends only trees, and adorns her body with conflict.
you cannot taste your own tongue, i think,
or maybe only mine is tasteless. no
measuring stick on reality, i pour out
lies about myself: this is the miracle of language.
freedom dreams/dreams of myself.
i build universes inside an hour,
inside a page, inside a tasteless brain. i cannot
why you like me: me i cannot imagine, or
imagine in infinite iterations.
words are slow. i am already
not what i was. i am always
practicing my loss of myself, spinning
words like enough lies will save me.