La femme obscurBy Lunette Elle Warren
She has an incurable case of Resting Bitch Face.
She’s a poet.
She’s a dirt road that stretches into the sunset and ends nowhere good or light or graceful.
She’s calculated whimsy.
She’s real, except when she isn’t.
She’s a vegetarian.
All her cosmetics are cruelty-free.
She has four pairs of leather shoes.
Her cruelty-free, organic, vegan, non-gmo shampoo is gluten-free, because so is she.
She hates people.
She’s a social justice warrior.
She’s a feminist.
She’s anti-establishment unless the establishment is the free market.
She buys local.
Her jeans are made in Taiwan.
Her shoes in India.
Her loose floral tees in China.
She grows her own tomatoes.
She buys her fruit at the farmer’s market.
Knows the vendors by name.
She always tips at least fifteen percent, but mostly twenty.
She tells everyone to have a good day.
Her smile is addictive.
Her eyes are the antidote to your bad day.
And her lips touch the air with a charm that paints silence on your tongue.
She’s the venom that makes you spin.
She’s your heroine.
She’s night become adamant.
She’s a split lip.
She’s a broken nose.
She’s a cold hospital bed.
She’s a bouquet of fresh cut flowers at six am.
Her voice is frost in the winter sun.
She’s an artist.
She’s your heroin.
Elle Warren has experience in breaking things and not much else. Somehow she managed to finish a PhD in Ancient Cultures before she got restless and moved on.
Her art, both written and visual, has appeared in Itch, Gravel, Entropy, Stanzas, and elsewhere. She sees emotions in landscapes. She creates because how can she not?