I say it enough.
Out loud and in faint whispers.
Scrawled in ink on pieces of picayune paper.
I breathe the word.
Even in the callouses of my fingers and the stubble on my legs,
I channel the very pneuma of the notion as I understand it.
A girl, I say to myself,
Is a contradiction,
Drifting between the innocence she was and the woman she wants to be.
Brilliant, cautious, and fractured,
A magnificently fucked up creature.
A paradox, really.
Just like a hurricane.
Or a monument.
Have I convinced you yet?
For I don’t think I can quite get myself to believe.
(This post is an afterthought. Read original post here.)
[Feature image via: Silvia Grav]