just like imagine finding marie antoinette’s last scent. imagine finding your fave heroine’s last tube of lipstick, or their brush, or their mascara. imagine that power, that potency. something they touched, this symbol of vanity and obligation and power and agency, something you’ve mirrored the use of long after their death, across space and time and generations and deaths and births and life. same rituals. the spray behind the neck, the wrist. you smell them in the air. pop the tube open, their last lipstick, this kiss of death and beeswax — smells like powder and promises that you’re gonna be as badass as them, if you swipe it on. this chalice of a thing, of potential. i used to break into old houses sometimes, when i was renovating a house that was almost mine — i’d come across old things all the time. old compacts, lockets, wedding photos. i’d sit in old claw foot tubs and listen to whitney houston and watch the ceiling slowly crumble in outrage at my temporary occupancy. i always wanted to find the old makeup of a dead mother, or a girl like me. can you imagine what it must have been like to find the last perfume vial of marie antoinette? can you imagine? i do.
i wanna find joan of arc’s bobby pins, or something. i want that kind of drive. i wanna hold that power in my hands. this rageful girl with god’s ear and the power of france behind her. imagine? imagine. your hair twisting back with the force that kept back hers. divine!!!!! divine. divine. the divine.