i am not the girl your mother warned you about. you know, the one with the pierced lip and a glare that could start a fire during the monsoon season. the girl whose arms are inky wings entwined with weeds and paper chain reminders of past loves. the girl whose name tastes like smoke on your lips and whose report cards are littered with the one letter that begins her most favorite swear word.
i am not the girl your mother warned you about. the only relics that i carry on my body are scars from playgrounds that kissed me back too hard. my lungs consist of both words and silences, neither of which i have found a way to control. i am a few inches short of dangerous and about nineteen years wiser than a pack of cigarettes.
your mother warned you about the girls who are hurricanes, that will see your body as a stone they can toss across the oceans without a second glance. hearts going seventy miles an hour have no time for regret. but there is always a sign or a season that brings them; each one you meet will be mapped out on a list of broken promises; hazel, audrey, katrina. they won't let you forget.
but i am not a hurricane; i am a california earthquake with a 7.8 on the richter scale of volatile personalities. i will come without warning and dissolve the earth into dust under your feet. there will be nowhere for you to hide; your body will unravel into war with itself, and your mother, wide-eyed, will wonder why you let me in. but i know better. she taught you to train your eyes to the sky when not even a seismograph could pick out a heartbeat buried 1800 miles deep.