The freedom fighter

it started with small freedoms:

the freedom of pressing the snooze button

the freedom of letting your hair down and letting it be

the freedom of stretching and unbuttoning

the freedom of the last little bite and the first sip

the freedom of humming to yourself.

but soon she set her sights on greater targets:

the freedom of going unwashed for a day or two

the freedom of tearing up traffic fines

the freedom of unconventional punctuation (...!)

the freedom of spontaneous dancing, lucid dreaming and random acting.

stealthily and with impressive prowess, the freedom fighter got to all of them.

she managed to rob you of ("liberate you from") every smile, song,

glance and idea that you'd freely express.

and you realized that she would not stop

you saw "Operation CATS" printed in bold in her mission statement:

Choice, Access, Thought and Speech - she would fight them until the very end.

she knew what's best for you, after all.

the audience member

her face is obscured, a halo of sepia.  but you can see her, she knows.  there is a connection between you, of course.  you've touched her, and you can feel the blush in her hands left by the applause.  the audience member never leaves (you) - she is still there, in the third row, on the left, long after the room has grown dim and awkward with its emptiness.  she protects you from its blank stare, her gaze a puppyish spotlight following you wherever you may go.  she is there in the shadows, keeping you a-lit, and she knows you can see her too.

the violinist

she wears vintage dresses.  every day she irons them into classic symphonies. so she tends to leave notes everywhere.  at night she can't sleep because her sheets are covered in music.

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.