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Autobiography (Pink Remix)

by Joanna Fuhrman
Illustration by Michael Worful

Autobiography (Pink Remix)

Joanna Fuhrman
18 Snaps

Everyone’s childhood was swallowed by a whale.
Inside the belly, we dreamed of a future where
we’d speed, miles underground, through the veins of
a snoring giant princess named New York.

Inside the belly, we dreamed of a future where
Manhattan would become us, but we would be
a snoring giant princess named New York,
shiny with orange drizzle and telepathic streetlights.

Manhattan would become us, but we would be
made out of the flames of other spiraling cities,
shiny with orange drizzle and telepathic streetlights.
Our livers Chicago, our ankles pure L.A.

Made out of the flames of other spiraling cities,
our noses would be the dirty canals of Berlin,
our livers Chicago, our ankles pure L.A.
Skin: the color of mannequins. Eyes: black glass.

Our noses would be the dirty canals of Berlin,
skirting around Turkish ice cream parlors.
Skin: the color of mannequins’ eyes. Black glass
hair lost in the mirrors of reflective birds.

Skirting around Turkish ice cream parlors,
we’d remember the sadness of our childhood,
hair lost in the mirrors of reflective birds,
memories found in the necks of oceanic monitors.

We’d remember the sadness of our childhood,
how we slept alone for so many years.
Memories found in the necks of oceanic monitors.
Everyone´s childhood was swallowed by a whale.

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