I know this girl
she walks the midnight streets
and on the nights when it is cold
the silent yards
they call to her.
This is her adrenaline
her tear-free thinking place
the echoes of ghost footsteps haunt her feet
and this quiet fear of streetlamp foes
carries her through the dark.
This quiet fear-the gears that turn her thoughts
the perspective midnight defiance brings
to clear her head of bedroom dreams and
terrors of those she might have loved
this quiet fear-her freedom.
A pretty girl
(so shes been told)
And smart, and often right,
and pretty girls do not roam
where only shadows wander
and only air and menace echoes of two am
can hide.
I know this girl
who in the night
when plagued by melancholy birds
will take her fast feet and little else
to battle with the dark.
The empty echoes of gravel under footsteps
and creak of slipping through shut gates
the tin foil seran wrap cackles
of her fingertips
pressing puddle ice.
These sounds she gathers in the midnight air
the drone of far off cars, the flash of headlights
the thrill of fear
she wraps them in the icy moonlight
and carries them home to bed.
And in the night when pillow thoughts might have brought her tears
this girl I know will walk alone,
and write about her midnight fears.