“She’s girly,” say the purple walls in her bedroom
and porcelain dolls in her dollhouse bookshelf.
“Not that girly,” reply the t-shirts and pants in her closet.
“Still, she enjoys wearing us whenever she can,”add the skirts and sundresses.
“She’s a writer, been writing passionately since eighth grade,”
say the tattered, worn down notebooks.
“She likes to hide us in the closet,”
says her seventh grade piece
“The Spirit of Alcatraz.”
“Her writing varies,” her characters all say.
“Un-average teenagers trying to lead a normal life,”
Kyle says poking out his forked tongue and opening his geometry textbook.
“A bit of romance in it,”
Chad chimes in giving his girlfriend Mei-Lin a kiss.
“Sorrow,” Nathan adds, stringing his guitar on a grassy field.
“Let’s not forget her latest piece,” Norman joins.
Rising from under a table. “Aliens.”
He jumps into a snowy forest and slides to an underground bedroom.
A black-haired woman pecks his neck. “Vampires.”
He pulls a falcon shaped dagger out of a drawer.
“My senior class, turning into a thirst quenching bloodbath.”