At Least The Girls In Stories Were

Under The Pink Harlequin Sunglasses Strawberry Dangling Charms, And Sugar-frosted Eyeshadow She Was Really Almost Beautiful.

What Shall We Do, All Of Us? All Of Us Oassionate Girls Who Fear Crushing The Boys We Love With Our Mouths Like Caverns Of Teeth, Our Mushrooming Brains, Our Watermelon Hearts?

That Was When I Cut My Arms With A Razor Blade As A Means Of Creative Expression. I Only Did It Lightly, Just Grazing The Skin, To See The Way The Blood Would Bleed Out, To Make Myself Look Tougher. Not Like Some Of Those Kids Who Keep Going Deeper And Deeper, Wondering What They Look Like Down To The Bone, Because It's A World That's So Close And Yet So Far And So Dangerous And So Much Their Own. The Only World That Is Their Own.

It's Not That I Literally Think I'm A Fearie. It's Just That I Feel So Different From Most People. And This Idea Of A Race Living Underground In Caverns, Spending All Their Days Dancing And Playing The Fiddle And Eating Flowers And Reciting Poetry And Sharing Their Dreams, That To Me Sounds Much More Real Than The Way People Live In This World, Hating And Fighting And Wanting And Hurting.

At Least The Girls In Stories Were Alive Before They Died.