the rebirthday girl

first find a wall.
preferably a white one, in the shady part of a garden.
it can also be a wall in a quiet room full of books.
as long as it is sturdy and somehow gentle, as if breathing.
for the wall will rock you to sleep. the wall will cradle you.
then press yourself against the wall as close, as tightly
as possible.
don't close your eyes (yet).
just lean into the wall like you'd lean into a caress.
only then, close your eyes.
and dream of yourself as a butterfly.
dream vividly and without fear.
a smile will appear in your dream.
when this happens, start spinning.
let out all your silky thoughts and let them
weave in criss-crossing strands around you.
only you will know these thoughts, even though they would be
outside of you. they are still part of you.
they are no longer frightening or disturbed:
they are at rest, finally, beautifully.
they always were beautiful, but you did not always know that.
now that they are a silken blanket folding around you,
now you know.
now you can rest, as well.
keep dreaming.
one of these days the wall will wake you.
you will slip out of your thoughtful sleep.
and you will be a butterfly, reborn.

Dangerous girl

it is the emptiness. the bottom of the lake. silent as the past. it is the numb laughter at the end of the knife. tracing the curve of her mouth. over and over. it is the pounce in her fingertips. the impression of poise before poison. her look that dares you (not) to come closer.
this is what scares you.
beware.
you are standing on the edge of her.

The feminist

i
am
not
a
muse
d

The naïve girl

she hates it when her feet get wet and being scared most of the time.
she wears skirts and a soft expression: she aspires to be full of grace.
she hopes someone is secretly in love with her.
she has strong opinions which she keeps to herself.
she has a recurring dream about crushed flowers.
she carries the scent of that dream: of something evaporating,
of tissue paper; and fragile, momentary anger.

The groovy girl

The groovy girl needs to get her groove back. And fast. And drugs won't do. Not this time. This time it is serious: she is wearing black. Gone are the greens, the orange and oh the fuchsia. A friend suggested she self-publish a slim volume of her poetry. Self-publishing poetry and dressed in black - she would look almost cool. And 'almost cool' is not groovy. What she'd like is the sway in her hips back. That smile on her skin. She'd like to hear the music of her body again. Feel all its colourful sensations. She wants to sparkle and bring on the good vibes. She wants to be tequila and siesta, languid and lush. She wants to be her catlike self again. Now that would be groovy. Like totally.

the moon girl

the moongirl is nostalgic for sunset. she longs for dusk, desires its intensity of vivid, rare colours. every day the moon girl stares into the white eye of the sun from behind the blue curtain of sky. without regard for the pale, the sun looks past her. but she is there...watchful and still as she grows full of dreams.