She has a chin with a little cleft in it from her dad and a round nose that hates the constant pinching. She wakes up and smiles at herself in order to prevent any further distortion, but her smile is fake and altered and she only liked it when she had to wear a retainer. He thought the lisp was cute. Her white blood cell count is normal and she always has a temperature of 98.7 degrees, precisely. Her toes bother her and she wishes people noticed her freckles instead of the pouch around her middle that was constantly there, just a little reminder. She loves making lists and goals and schedules but stores them away in a little box for lists instead of completing them. She wants to leave so bad, so bad. Leave and run from the people who make her feel secure because she needs to feel challenged and helpless and humbled. She made this hard to read on purpose. She keeps and hoards everything with meaning. She still has that poem you wrote her in ninth grade that was son wonderfully terrible and she wishes you told her more. She keeps everything she hears about herself and about others and puts them in Manila folders because sometimes she forgets who she is. She has three clocks in her room because she is afraid than one day time will stop and she won't be able to progress. She's afraid of them. Of all of them. Them who point and them who jeer and them who never understood. She's terrified mostly of herself and her impulses and she's worried about becoming a boy. She touches the lockers as she passes by because they hold things that she will never see but they belong to someone and she wants a piece of that belong. She wants a hearty helping of belong served with compliments and a rich dessert filled with love and real friends. She wants carpe diem and hakuna matata and Jane, Jane, Jane. She waits at the same corner every day, watching the same cars, hating the same people, and wishing she could love them the way everyone else does. She, the mortal mess who roamed unconsciously through an honestly grand adventure.
