Sporadic. This girl
tells me she's going to live til she's
a hundred and thirty-three.
"I'm going to see history unfold
before my very eyes until
it's flat and spread enough,
it can't hold any more secrets."
Sporadic. This girl
tells me she'll find out history's secrets,
like they were more comparable
to her misplaced magic markers
than to the equality we so craved.
And the funny thing is that
she actually, truly, honestly believes that she can—
The other funny thing is that
I think I'm starting to believe her
and now, I've decided I'm telling her—
and she's walking towards me,
bright eyes and smiling lips
replaced by bitter lines and hues.
She's walking towards me—Sporadic.
This girl tells me that she's sorry
because she just got a call from her doctor—
Sporadic. This girl tells me
that she won't live past twenty-three.