She is not who she says she is: the one with a jaw too tight to speak and eyes too fogged to percieve. She is not a woman with no ache to her bones; nor is she a girl with no break in her heart.

She is not a quiet mind. She will settle not a debate in her life. She will carry your words in her head like the book in her arms.

She does not stare to go unnoticed; she wants to catch another’s ear in a whisper, and hold their eyes even when she is not speaking.

She is a mind that has not yet been released verbally, but by the flow of an ink pen, or the shriek of a marker.

She is not who she says she is, which is who she once cried she would always be.