Sunday, October 24, 2010

Pixie Girl

I wish I looked that good in bandanas.
Or in the clothes I danced in and slept in last night.
Your voice sounds like the tinkling of small, silver bells. It goes perfectly with your tiny frame.
You could almost pass as a ten year-old girl.

But your eyes give it away. Strange, blue eyes that look vacant until you speak.
Then they look like they hold so many truths. Or maybe they just reflect the disorganized mess in your head, only sounding like truths because while we all hide our messes, you embrace yours.

There is something comforting about talking to you.
Something deeper and more sincere in the way you ask questions that normal people wouldn't ask. But they sound normal coming out of your mouth. Just like nobody else could dance like that and not look like a whore. But you looked natural, as if it was something that humans were supposed to do.
Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you.

I couldn't tell you why you seem so artificial, not in a fake way, but in a department-store-toy-that-came-to-life way. As if someone dragged out the corners of a girl's doll to make you just large enough to pass as a real person.
As if you don't need to eat, you don't need to sleep.

All you need to do is paint and laugh and ask strange questions
to survive.

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