Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom?

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method.

She always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really,
she was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember her?

…of course you wouldn’t.

You would have her more like this:

That weird nerd who doesn’t talk to anyone.
has long hair and draws on his pants,
is awkward in every conceivable way
- and possibly gay.

He spends all day in his notebook,
writing who-knows-what.
Who cares -

- about what his dreams were?
He was just another background character in your life.

There was one time you cheered him on,
at the hot-dog eating contest.
The only time you ever touched his hand
was to give him a high five for that.

You always pitted him.
silently.
Never out loud.

She was there.
Hiding behind his eyes.
And she loved you.
As much as one could love someone in seventh grade.

But you never loved her.
You couldn’t have.

She didn’t even know she existed yet.