I’m “that type of girl.”
The type who travels with poetry in her bag, right next to the comics.
The type who carries a sketchbook whenever she goes, because drawing is the only way to make sense of the world.
The type who’s alone in a group, watching everything.
The type who worries later, after opening up, that those who heard her won’t invite her again.
The type that carries a flask for a good time, because at least the light buzz will remove the anxiety, the uptightness, the constant worry over the smallest things.
The type who wants to be “the type” and yet rails and rallies against what it could mean.
The type who wants to be “cool” and “light” and “easy-going” but can’t even decide what to eat for lunch without weighing a hundred variables, including nutritional value, fullness, and financial cost.
Who reads feminist theory on the train, trying to understand why men can be so cruel, and women so catty.
Who is sexual, expriemental, and firery, but has also been seen as sexual, experimental, and easy.
Who defends the girl that can’t stand up for herself, even if no one was there to defend her.
Maybe that’s why she defends them.
Who sees others who need help, and stops.
Always stays until they don’t need her, and then becomes strangers to them when they decide she’s too much.
Who stares at the people who hurt her, and wonders how it was her fault, just to feel like she has some control.
Who wants to do better.
Wants to change the world.
Wants to be champion of all.
Butt doubts anyone really cares.