SHE

Erin Jenkins

She's sixty-five percent Bob, a third

Annie, five percent legit. The coy façade she attempts,

The silhouette veil that you see,

Is a fancy French term for there's no fucking way

I am letting YOU get to ME.

She'll accept the lyrics of a foolish song, smile

At the idea that love can conquer all. Maybe it

Can happen. Maybe it has happened. Maybe it's

A pin on a nun, from a story written hundreds of

Years ago. She'll gush over flowers, especially

Fire and ice; Nabokov's opposing images—

Existing only in contrasting frames. You'd

Have to be there though, to understand.

It feels like bipolar disorder and tastes

Like strawberries and dirt.

She writes about fucking and pain and loss—

The absolute emotions that can paint a soft

Summer night black, blue, a pale shade of

Red. She is inspired by the pace of life, the same

Heart that beats these days through the next, convulses

Her soul into a pen, into a dream that is closer to real.

Her bed is her home, nemo her heart.

She has addictions and insecurities. She could care

Less about fixing them.   She is proud of her

Will to just deal with it. She's stunning when she smiles,

Her outward fierceness diluted to a velvety virtue. She

Sees through your phony demands and mocking tendency,

Referring only to herself as cute, though a near beautiful

Devastation, wrapped up in her own paper bow.

Don't ask her to quote herself, just listen. She emits

Hilarity and unintentional humor. She has forgotten what

She just said. Yeah, it's that good. Take notes, my friend.

Maybe ask her for the time. She is that woman in a crowd,

Smiling to herself, in quiet desperation. Someone you may

Never get the pleasure of knowing.