She is the kind of something you find pressed between the pages of long forgotten poetry—timeless despite the dust and crinkled petals. You will wish to tuck her inside your jacket pocket the same way you do with all of the girls with edges like hers, but she is not as easily captured as words on a dirty napkin—letters to your mother at 4:52 in the morning that you can only dream of sending.
To those who believe that bones and teeth and skin can be possessed like property and diamonds, she is fiercely sovereign. You have never met a girl so desperate to find herself, to claim herself as her own. Nothing as feeble as a last name or fingerprints at a crime scene will ever hold her down.
She will dig beneath your mattress and rummage through your laundry until she finds the bits and pieces you’ve been hiding from her since the night she fell asleep on your carpet. Whatever is still missing, she’ll claw through her own flesh to retrieve (you’ve never been one for blood, but you have a theory her heart beats molten lava and you might have to jump from rib to rib to escape the heat).
Her touch is riddled with firm practises and you wonder if maybe her brain is a series of equations rather than tiny galaxies like you’d originally thought. Would that make it easier?
She insists that you pull up the linoleum from your kitchen floor and start looking for yourself rather than her. She spits fire and you breathe nothing but hot air.
[a/n: i'm moving seeing stars here, i think c: (it's late and i'll properly decide in the morning)]
