She has always wanted to be the sky.
She captures dust motes dancing, races raindrops on windowpanes.
She presses flowers between pages and hopes to pay for college with them.
She spends too long in magazine catalogues, shortchanges herself on margarine.
She wishes she looked like Andrej Pejic. That worn-away waist. Those modelled cheeks, those bright bones.
She still thinks the sparrow flew away solely to spite her.
She thinks she was done a great wrong.
She likes to cry because no one hears her otherwise.
She doesn’t want future without joy.
She sold tomorrow for happiness, and prays only for happiness to last.