Base Tan
My body. My life.
My base tan. My strife.
This skin wraps around my sweet, lost soul, but the best protection it sometimes is not and then I notice that my tits are peeling.
My body. My life.
My base tan. My strife.
Balenciaga ‘12 wants me to be darker. I can no longer hide the bone-white secret that is my flesh.
The seasons change and the self-tanner pours from the bottle. I must be safe. I must love myself.
My body. My life.
My base tan is my wife.
Treat her with respect. Honor her power. She is everything to me. I want to be tan so fucking bad for the love of God, please.
PS: Please don’t text or sext or expect me to come out of my bedroom for the next six-ten hours. I’ll be sitting completely nude in a corner, listening to the tribal lullaby that is Fiona Apple’s new single.