I spent midnight hours with girls who carried stars in their pockets and could shake the night sky from their hair. Girls with small framed glasses and ponytails slicked back who would read your inner workings like a paperback. Girls who wore blood on their arms and bandanas across their forehead spitting on injustice scribbling a book of names. Beautiful girls. The ones who managed to hold the sun inside their chest. Who would light your life from the inside out. The ones with soft voices who could sing you back to the ocean and show you what it meant to hear moonlight. The pottery girls who treated you like clay, hoping you take shape. Girls better left untouched. Quinoa girls who held their hands outstretched with avocados and shea butter, there to see if you had smiled that day. Island girls with doe eyes who danced for palm trees. The art gallery girls in ripped overalls hanging picture frames inside your chest. Girls who burned their fathers, who spoke loudly but kissed soft. The autumn girls who were crisp apples and fallen leaves. Who listened to the weight of your steps and changed the wind with their fingertips. Broken glass girls who thrived on sharp edges and combat boots who warned of the harvest moon. Lighthouse girls who wouldn’t rest until you were safe in harbor, who tasted of salt and too much time in the sun. Girls who were the sound of chimes on a Midwest porch. Girls who were sunflowers, who were earthquakes, who were highways, who were honeybells, who were cigarettes
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