Who is she?

WHEN I SEE THIS GIRL, I remember her ways. She took the elevator each day to the sixth floor, lived at a desk, ate cereal for every meal. She fashioned her hair according to her mood and seldom drank, borrowed her anger from lost experiences, sank. Transition was insipid, and she could hardly fathom direction.

This girl took the walk of shame. Her self perception was minimal and her confidence, at best, clouded. She made mistakes on her face, with disgrace, every night. She veered to realms her parents wouldn’t approve, and she knew. She didn’t miss home.

This girl, she took things as they were taken, generally: Literal, cynical, dilapidated. She walked alone in the dark twice a night, keys between her knuckles, eyes toward the crosswalk. She said yes, she said no. She changed.

When I see this girl, I feel strength because she was strong, but weaker than I am today. And she has proved herself wrong.