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.