Summer’s seduction is approaching its final turn. Cloaked in pastels, it still might trick you into thinking it’s endless, or that it’s harmless, when it is neither of those things. If a pretty flower is poisonous, its prettiness doesn’t remove the poison, it parades it. Fuck with it at your own peril.
Whenever my birthday approaches, I feel the end of summer is near, which makes it all the more dangerous. When there is nothing left to lose, when summer approaches its last stand, the thorns and knives begin to cut. Don’t be fooled by the pretty pastels, don’t think we are soft because of our silence.
The August Virgo is not someone with whom to fuck.
