Why is it that you happen to be green? Green. Not a soft pastel green, but green-green. Green like the pulverized stems of flowers, freshly cut from the garden in the heat of summer.

This is not a good sign.

What is also not a good sign is your incredibly sharp opening; razor blades embedding themselves in my nervous system; the juice of flowers flowing out of my throat and leaving a sticky trail on my skin. The crushed stalks under the tires of an old car; the crushed stalks under the sun, becoming sour and pungent.

You are without sillage. You are without legacy. You are sexless. Mindless.

You are the flower patch in my back yard; deconstructed. Your plant-like tendencies make me think feminine, and yet your undertones are deep and gutted with another thing entirely: masculine. In your greeness there is the simplicity of Chloé and the honesty of your colour. You smell of flowers and stems and dirt and to some extent this scares me. Where is the humanity that will keep me safe and separate? Where do you start and where do I begin?

You promised me a “comforting halo,” and like the lover that leaves in the dark of the night, you lied.

You are green; deconstructed. A stunning green, to be certain, but nothing more. The static character. The flat character. The luxe liquid in the stunning glass that smells as it is seen.