literature

I Know a Girl

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Literature Text

I know a girl who wants to cut her hair short (or at least shorter than it is) and dye it blue and purple like the twilit sky – but she keeps that curly mane long and brown, so that she can keep working. That’s the same reason her skin is as clear as un-inked parchment, despite the collection she keeps of tattoos she wants but cannot have.

I know a girl who grew up hungry and so she adores food. All of it, everything from the sizzle of roasting chicken to the drizzle of melting chocolate, fresh bread and old cheese, ripe avocadoes and bananas still tinged with green. But she doesn’t always remember to eat enough, and sometimes she somehow manages to survive on little more than coffee and tea, as if caffeine and the laughter of those around her are all the sustenance she needs.

I know a girl who still can’t figure out if she is an introvert or an extrovert, because there are days when she is lonely, when she misses the whole world and everyone in it, and then there are days when even the company of her cats is too much. She cannot decide. Maybe she is a bit like a cat, herself.

I know a girl whose body is covered with scars. Even though most of them have been rubbed away by the hands of time, she knows them all. She will point somewhat proudly to the longsword mark upon her hand, smiling over that kiss of steel, but she frowns because she cannot forget the cruel eyes that landed on her when she was an awkward teen wrapped head to toe in half-healed pock marks.

I know a girl who is both loving and loved beyond the measure of words, though she often needs to be reminded of it. She is part of a pack, standing shoulder to shoulder with rowdy men who howl at the moon, stubborn women who refuse to admit when they are wrong, and brave people who fall somewhere in between, wearing their bleeding hearts on tattered sleeves for all the world to see.

I know a girl who used to be afraid of telling the world how much she loved, how much she was loved, but the people who surround her make her strong, and for that she loves them even more. She is not fearless; she knows what it is to be afraid. That is why she lives her life boldly, making no apologies for who she has become, who she has always been. She is proud. She lets her flag fly. If she can be herself, just another bit of human diversity, then maybe the kids who are like her won’t have to grow up feeling as alone as she did.

I know a girl that I see in the mirror every day. It took her a long time to learn how to love herself, to cherish everything about herself, from the strength in her calves to the shadows in her heart. Sometimes she loves those parts a little less than all the others. But I’m glad she’s made it this far. I’m glad she knows that no one has the right to tell her she shouldn’t be happy. I hope she sticks around. I hope she stays.
If writers could create the literary equivalent to self-portraits, I think they'd be a little something like this.

Cathartic writing is cathartic.
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