the brainy girl

the brainy girl is hungry.  she has already eaten four books, all of them fiction, and she's starting to think it is probably not a balanced diet. but what to do to still the gnawing!  though she has a healthy appetite for philosophical treatises, they tend to give her heartburn.  and academic essays leave her feeling bloated.  so starved is she for ideas and novelty, she's succumbed to junk food, guiltily snacking on news feed between meals.  she finds herself famished for something of substance - she could eat an entire library in one sitting!  she'd lick the images off the pages, stuffing all the words into her mouth until her ravenous mind grew full.  alas, for now all she can do is savor the thought…

a message from cloud girl

"moody, brooding,

distracted, unclear,

in bad shape,

idealistic, a drifter"

you say

sorry to rain

on your parade

but

i'm not what you make of me

  quit trying to steal

 my thunder

whale woman

she rises early
always to the same blue sound
the tone of a deeper sadness
on days
the colour of
a sunless sea
she tries
to sing back
but longing fills
her voice with water
she only knows
that in the vast blackness
of that song
there is the slim white notes
of a deeper synchrony
a sudden swift crescendo
like the simultaneous flash
of a thousand silver tails

cat lady

"It's four in the afternoon and you're still sleeping?"

"Where were you last night?"

"You did what?!"

"What do you mean you got yourself into this, you can get yourself out?"

"How can you look this gorgeous all the time?"

"You're the director?  How did you get all the way up there?"

"Are you calling me a bitch?"

A cat lady never tells.

the good girl

she has a heart of gold.  it shines through her, an emblazoned message of warmth, glimmering hope and pure, honeyed sweetness.  she might as well have a neon sign ("there's a good girl") pointing at the exact spot where all of her precious love can be accessed - which can be problematic... especially since her heart is said to be unbreakable,  and this seems to entice some to test it.  the good girl feels uncomfortable carrying her heart, something of such apparent value and solidity, in the brittle chamber of her chest, but everyone assures her: it's in the right place.

the girl next door

she could be anybody.  she wears jeans and a ponytail and the look of a screen door: like she might just let you in, but you're not exactly welcome.  she has a smile that is hardly secretive, but you think that she has secrets.  you can hear the muffled melody of her days through the walls and you imagine you would miss it, you would miss her if she was gone.  it never occurs to you to ask what her name is.  you're not even sure you would recognise her should you ever meet in a non-mundane setting.  she has never asked you for your name either.  she has a smile that does not borrow anything.  she wears jeans and a t-shirt and the look of backyards and supermarkets: an offer of comfort that could disappoint in future.  still, you're convinced, it's nice to know she's there.

the light girl

she blows in through your window bearing gifts of angel cake and sparkling wine.  she says she has a gypsy caravan waiting if you want to come - you can only take one suitcase the weight of reverie, three poodles, or a vision of a lithuanian hot air balloon.  then she laughs like it's summer and you're having popsicles, and tells you not to take her seriously.  but it's too late.  you have your suitcase in one hand carrying nothing but love, the kind that melts fast, and you're hopeful.

cover girl

she is tired of excuses. correction: she is tired of being an excuse. anyway, it's not like her life is a breeze. she can never claim a bad hair day or the time of the month or the side-effects of left-over nightmares. she has to show up. she has to grin and bear it: the smile spilled all over her face, the appearance of always being mid-dance, or beaming with gladness, awash in sunlight and colour and all that is wholesome, as if anyone would just love living a never-ending detergent commercial. and everyone simply glosses over her – for once, she wishes they would stop and consider what it's really like to be her. to be so exposed, to have a surface for a face and to know that whatever you try to hide behind is but paper thin.

chocolate girl

of course i'm messy. but you still love me, don't you? maybe it's my own insecurities - i mean, sometimes i get this feeling that i'm too much, but at the same time, that i can never be enough... it's just that i feel like you're pushing me away, like there's this obligatory distance you seem compelled to impose between us. i know, i know, boundaries and all that. i don't want to be clingy - i'm stuck on you, that's all. come on, i'm trying to be sweet here! don't you want me? yes, i have my dark side and yes, there are moments when i'm a bit intense. but am i really so bad? don't i make you happy?

the one who thinks herself a bird

fell in love with the sky.

*

lives for the inbetween seasons.

*

majored in metaphysics.

*

will not (ever) use Twitter.

*

only pecks at her food.

*

is all for liberation movements and ardently supports V-day

(though she skirts around certain issues).

*

is often admired for her sense of perspective and unique points of view.

*

never has storage problems.

*

has yet to experience that sensation of falling in her sleep.

*

sings herself awake.

the new girl

she's back. no-one knows where she's been. just that she is back. and somehow new. no-one remembers her from before. that's what makes her new, somehow. she simply appeared. you notice her in the hallway, you find her on your doorstep; she hangs around the moon, sits under trees. she pops up everywhere, but without yelling 'surprise'. more like inside laughter. you wonder why you're not afraid of her, and if you should be. then again, no-one fears what is fresh. and she is that. and so new, she is untouchable.