I know a girl
Who sits behind a computer screen
Wondering if she's worth something

I know a girl
Who stares into space trying to think of reasons
Why people should care if she fades like the seasons

I know a girl
Who is broken more than she can comprehend
Who cuts and scars more when she tries to mend


I am a girl
Who could just cry -- I could just cry
When I see that maybe my words matter
Maybe there are people who like what I write

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved
in her laughter and being part of it, until her
teeth were only accidental stars with a talent
for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,
inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally
in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter
with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a
pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
green  iron table, saying: ‘If the lady and
gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,
if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea
in the garden…’ I decided that if the shaking
of her ******* could be stopped, some of the
fragments of the afternoon might be collected,
and I concentrated my attention with careful
subtlety to this end.

*******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. **** ME. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******.*******. *******.

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.