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Dior Diorella Eau de Toilette

A Poem

By Elanda-Isabella AtencioPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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My life is perfumed. I've laid in bed at thirteen, my gaze transformed from last night's reading, with the savory spiciness press between the pages of a book as it rests against me. In the shower, I washed my lover's hair after a night of vodka and sweat, the blend of fruit-scented shampoo, steamed water and our clean skin after a hot shower penetrates my pores.

The minty aroma would win the senses race, with taste coming second as I sipped my mojito. A man walks by and his musky scent sends my consciousness to a memory of my father's cologne; sweet and special. When I leave my ears are assaulted by the kids, who stay up past ten as their calk screeches across the concrete.

My life is perfumed. Every Christmas I recall my Uncle Sam as Santa Clause, my father's eight siblings, their children and their children' children making tamales with my grandmother. The dark meat packed into the masa, spices ran under my noise and laughter rang in my ears. The sweaty salt falls over my eyebrows, down my face, into my mouth while I run around the campus. Noxious gas infiltrates my lungs and leaves tears in my eyes.

My dog's sandy coat of thick hair sings texture; a disharmonious texture when I pet her coat. The spicy sin is like licking the devil's tail when I think about kissing her lips. And then I spend the night in her bed and her sheets smell like a fabric softener of an old best friend.

My life is perfumed. Dank, I suppose would be the right choice of words; a reminder of people, a reminder of lovers, a memory within the taste of affairs and the hymns of whiskey and ice. My life will always be perfumed.

performance poetry
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About the Creator

Elanda-Isabella Atencio

Follow me @elanda_m! I'm a writer, an editor, maybe a journalist? Who knows where my life path will take me. Singing is passion, so is dropping my bags and traveling anywhere at any moment.

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