I'm the girl

I am the girl falling asleep headfirst on top of the covers to the clackclackclacking of the rain against the windowpane. I am dreaming in tarnished poetry and rotting hopes, birdbone-wrists locking together, fingers plucking the strings along guitar-ribs. I am loving myself even as I pull apart wishbone-veins, stringing myself out across the carpet to pick out the parts I like best.

And I am the girl wandering the aisles of the book store. I am curling in corners with Hemmingway, touching the pages like a lover, smelling the ink because I’m the girl who thinks books smell like faith. I’m tucking myself between each syllable, climbing down the commas and resting on the vowels. I am sticking my post-it-note-wishes over the adjectives, waiting for the words to bleed through the page and stain the backside of my skin.

And I am the girl holding her elbows when watching the ocean. I am pulling the stitches closed and wincing against the saltwater on my scars. I am not afraid to look in my opal-reflection, but I’m not ready to face it just yet.

And, oh, I am the girl throwing kerosene on the stars. I am the one setting the moon on fire. I am tearing apart the dictionary because none of the definitions work, ripping up words to create a collage of meanings that aren’t worth a thing. I am swallowing bullets and spitting out machine-gun-rounds, tearing off my skin because I swear it’s too tight. I am running with nothing but moonbeams, laughing with nothing but sarcasm, hating with nothing but empathy and losing with nothing but pride.

Because:
I’m the girl that’s a messy dreamer.
I’m the girl that’s a mess.
I'm the girl…