Clever girl was taken.
As was bookish girl, book girl, ink girl, bright girl. Sharp girl sounded dangerous (you could poke an eye out). Smart girl too ambitious.
I start to wonder if I am reaching, 27 and reaching for a title that no longer fits. But look: here are jeans and a long skinny scarf, blue like minnow fish. Striped tights. Cupcakes. Red drinks. A pear light in the living room. A red chair.
All the evidence would suggest a playfulness, a life.
Only now there are apple-tinis and eyebrow waxes and make-up that doesn't look made, and car shops and gas bills and grocery lists and gray. Fuses when blown must be fixed by a journey...the basement, the dark.
Never writer girl. Not write girl. Oh god, poet girl.
Never admit to what you are really doing.
Milk shakes, coffee shakes, magazines, hair barrettes, high boots, highball, green pens, curry spice, postcards, birthday cards, chapbook, camera, fishnets, fireworks, flashlight, ball.
Here are the details. You make the order.
