You see me standing here,
don’t you?
No, don’t go.
Pale, freckled, blue-eyed
What might you think of me,
Sharpie-scribbled skin, pixie cut,
strange necklace and faraway look.
See me, average height, in a flower crown.

(Haven’t slept for six days.)

I’ll tell you something; I thought I had wings when I was younger;
not anymore.

But back-
You see me. I know you do, now.
you think to yourself

(note: not to anyone else)

she’s not like us,
not really.
You see, we’re all clear glass.
And she, she’s just too vibrant,
unusual. A firework
in our masterpiece.
She can’t belong.
I know that.
Really.

But listen. Just for a
minute.
Not to me, not yet.
Listen to the world.
Now lay down.
Do you feel the world tipping under you?
Now close your eyes.
Do you feel the sun on your upturned face?

Tell me you can’t hear the faint
and softest feather-breath of wind
or the subtle stream of bird-song.
now sit back up – I’m going to tell you
something.
You’re right.
no, I’m not glass –
I’m not that easily shattered, at least not anymore.
but I’m not a eccentricity, either.
I’m more of a…
compass of a girl,
a feather,
a catcher of dreams.
I may not be like you, but that’s okay.

Maybe I don’t want to be.

Maybe I’m better off with my pixie cut,
my Sharpied skin and peculiar ways.

And my memory of wings
brushing against my back.