The Anatomy of An Aguamala

Claret lips on columbine skin, I was that faded, washed out portrait you find crinkled at the bottom of the wash cupboard. Ghost-like and ethereal, like a vision through the fog. White silk, white stitching, white fur, sheer stockings clinging with white-hot static to pale, dove freckled skin. I’ve lined my lips in poppy red and rimmed my eyes in heliotrope.

Oh, and I’m probably blushing.