Here in Our Hollow We Fuse Like a Family, But I Will Not Mourn for You

Genevieve Turkett is cascading white Christmas lights reflected on your car window and superimposed onto your face. She is the warmth left in the nest after the last baby bird has learned to fly. She is one thousand first loves. Genevieve Turkett does not cry over spilled milk, but she will mourn a lost kitten for weeks and weeks. She loves the word "fuck." She loves beautiful women with curves and kicks and sexy lingerie. She is a mythical palace of unfinished wood. She is a hand sewn quilt made from scraps of your favorite childhood daydreams. Genevieve Turkett is dark purple satin fused with Egyptian cotton.
She's fighting one hundred million internal battles and dancing two hundred million internal ballets and you would never know it unless you noticed how she's always careful to pirouette over shrapnel.

Genevieve Turkett is bubbly, but not carbonated--a non-renewable resource. She is simultaneously bold and subdued. She's not inflammable, but somehow she's already burning. Genevieve Turkett is your inspiration and you don't even know it; future generations will think she was a goddess and a myth. She is not a myth. She is one thousand true loves.
Genevieve Turkett is sultry like sipping brandy and raw like whisky breath. She forgets to fold her clothes. She forgets to hang up her halo. She is anime Ella Fitzgerald. She loves unconditionally. She's your favorite bed time story in a full scale Broadway production with lyrics by Elton John. She is fairy tales. Genevieve Turkett is open blinds at sunset. Some times you have to remind her to shower. Some times you have to remind her to breathe. She is cluttered and chaotic and collaged beyond recognition. She has to deal with imaginary problems because no one else is willing to address the important issues that exist outside of reality. She is arts and crafts and groceries and kittens in cups. She is one thousand lost loves.