she's barely an inch taller - but still taller -
squinting at the horizon line and heaving tobacco smoke
through resin coated lungs that should belong to a
fourty three year old smoker, not an eighteen year old
graduate

she laughs the loudest when others cast glances
and hushed whispers
and never misses the chance to tell you
she couldn't possibly give less
of a ****

she likes convenience store mints;
the round white ones you'd find
at the bottom of grandma's purse that tasted like
dust and chemically sweetened perfume,
and home

she went to a school where "****"
was spat like poison at her feet
but knew exactly what to say when three girls
cornered her, knew exactly how to throw her
words like fists

she gets hives from cats and grass and
practically anything outside her door
so she spends most of her time inside,
only leaving to have another
cigarette

she listens to tool and radiohead
and smokes half a joint before bed to help her sleep
but she still doesn't; not for long
and she twitches as her brain drifts in and out of
consciousness

she will tell you if you will listen
accept her head space and back off
just enough for her to breathe
because god--she needs to breathe as much as she
possibly can

I do not claim to know her,
after no more than 42 days do I have any idea
why she will drink a bottle of gin like it's water
or why it takes intoxication to show any kind of
affection

but I know what it's like to wake up at 5am
and find her sitting on the floor beside your bed
and in silence watch the sun rise
before going back to sleep
together

and I know what it takes to make her laugh
to stimulate and stir whatever is left
of the emotion she spent years destroying
and how her mouth tastes like fire and loss
and hope

I do not claim to know a lot
but I think I know how to make this beautiful ghost
of a person happy

and that
is enough